


The Teacher and the Cheater

by SamanthaStephens



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Academia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaStephens/pseuds/SamanthaStephens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a frustrated young professor in his first tenure-track position at a university in Manhattan. Eames is a too-smart-for-his-own-good guy he keeps running into around town--one who has a secret. Happy ending guaranteed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dice Was Loaded From the Start

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first non-anonymous thing I have ever written, so be gentle with me. I'm sort of terrified right now. Also, it is obscenely long already and it's not even done yet. That's all for now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur and Eames meet.

"OK everyone, remember Wednesday's discussion will focus on logical empiricism and how its arguments on observation and the necessity of verifiable, quantifiable claims can be extrapolated to modern cultural and political debates. Please do the reading and be prepared. I don't get paid to stand up here and debate with myself."

Arthur can feel whatever small amount of authority he'd managed to sustain throughout the class vanish as the students stand from their seats and immediately focus on other activities including chatting with each other, texting and firing up their iPods. They obviously aren't interested in him or in his laboriously prepared lectures and bullet-pointed discussions. And honestly, he's decided not to make any special effort to be interested in them, either. 

Arthur wonders how many years he'll have to teach these survey courses full of clueless freshman and who have no ideas of their own and faux-jaded upperclassmen who are just looking to round out their graduation requirements with a philosophy or history course? Will he ever get to mold young minds or broaden the horizons of students breathless with the thrill of learning? Do those sorts of students even exist?

He'd be thrilled to even have _one_ student who was actually excited by the reading materials and eager to discuss them. Hell he'd be happy to have a student who didn't read the materials, but was engaged enough in the world around him- or herself to make even remotely salient points in the discussion.

Obviously this isn't going to happen, at least not this semester.

Not that they are all slackers. A good number of the students do the reading. They go through the material with carefully organized, multicolored highlighters. They make a point of raising their hands at least once every other class period, in order to get full marks on participation. But they never have anything even remotely interesting to say. Their papers are even more brain dead. It's as if they ignore the ideas writhing beneath the surface of the text and simply check the major concepts off a list, one specifically designed so that Arthur can find no serious fault with their work, even if he can't find anything inspiring about it, either.

Was he ever like that as an undergraduate? He couldn't possibly have been. He remembers raucous discussions that spilled over to the lunch tables after class and reading assignments so interesting that he couldn't help bringing them up conversationally with his roommates. Could he be romanticizing his own academic career? Or are students today just cut from a different cloth? Or is Arthur actually a 60-year-old man in a 32-year-old's body? 

He opens his Moleskine planner and glances over his schedule. Luckily he doesn't have to face the tedium of office hours until late afternoon, and the history department's chair had mysteriously canceled the brown-bag departmental meeting scheduled for lunch--not that Arthur is complaining.  
___

With an unprecedented five full hours of freedom stretching ahead of him, Arthur wanders past the world-famous independent cinema that he was so excited to learn was in walking distance from his office when he accepted the position. A Spanish psychological thriller on the marquee sounds promising; intense yet thought provoking is Arthur's favorite type of movie synopsis. 

He feels slightly giddy as he takes a seat near the middle, clutching a bag of naturally buttered organic popcorn and a bottle of sparkling water. It's as if he's playing hooky from class. Or, more accurately, it reminds him of the freedoms he never fully appreciated as a student--such as the ability to nap in the middle of the day. Or, more crucially, it recalls when he had the opportunity to do whatever he wanted in his free time, confident in the knowledge that he was already succeeding in his only job--being smart.

____

Two hours later, Arthur emerges, blinking at the bright glare of the afternoon sun. He's not accustomed to leaving a theater with daylight still shining. His stomach grumbles loudly. The small popcorn wasn't nearly enough considering that he'd only had two cups of heavily creamed, crappy coffee from the departmental common room for breakfast. Continuing his afternoon of indulgence, he pops into a nearby Belgian beer garden and coffee shop that he loves, but rarely patronizes for fear of running into his own students. 

Another part of the young assistant professor's lifestyle that Arthur never understood until he was living it is how isolating it can feel. 

He's not that much older than his oldest students. It might be a temptation if there were a single person he'd consider befriending in real life in any of his courses. He's significantly younger than all of the tenured faculty in his department. There are an actual handful of other assistants and associates in their early 30s. But the competition between them is so stiff that no one can ever feel relaxed around each other and all conversations quickly devolve into who has published what most recently and where. 

The less said about his recent attempts at having a love life, the better.

Reveling in the comparative freedom of the afternoon, he orders a beer with his sandwich and takes a seat on a red couch near the front window. He can't help noticing the guy sitting in the overstuffed chair to his left--sandy brown hair, stubble and a muscled, but not beefy physique, which is not very well hidden by his snap-front plaid shirt and tight dark-wash jeans. 

"Jesus Christ look at those lips!" he thinks.

Arthur is pretty sure some society dames uptown would pay through their reconstructed noses to have lips like this guy's. 

Arthur has never in his life paid for sex, but he might consider it to see that grape-Popsicle mouth wrapped around his cock. On principle, he probably wouldn't be able to go through with it, but for this guy, he'd very strongly consider it. Very strongly. Luckily the man doesn't look like he makes a living selling his body, so Arthur won't have to face that sort of temptation any time soon. 

In fact, once Arthur is able to draw his eyes away from those gorgeous cheekbones, which are slightly hollowed as the man sucks on his bottom lip in concentration--"Holy mother of God that should be illegal"--Arthur realizes that the guy is reading a book about a museum that figured prominently in his own dissertation. Spread out across the table in front of him are a mess of files and a stack of books on the father of biological nomenclature and founder of modern geology. 

Arthur has never understood the superstition that if something seems too good to be true, then you ought to pinch yourself, because you're probably asleep and dreaming. But, nevertheless, he surreptitiously pinches his thigh, right above the knee. 

"This can't be happening. One of the most gorgeous guys I've seen since moving to the city--probably the most gorgeous who doesn't make a living from it as a model or actor--is sitting less than 10 feet from me and he's reading about 18th century scientists," he thinks.

"Did I fall asleep in the movie theater," Arthur wonders. "Am I actually having some sort of early onset medical crisis and this is a hallucination?"

Arthur realizes that he's been staring, mouth slightly ajar, for far too long, when the man looks up, grins and says: "Hullo. Can I help you with something then?"

"Lord help me he's British," Arthur thinks. "I'm probably in the back of an ambulance right now, suffering from oxygen deprivation."

Arthur clears his throat, in a vain attempt to stall for time. 

"Sorry. I was just taken aback by your reading selection. I, uh, my degree is in the history of science with a specialty in 18th and 19th century private artifact collections. I, uh, did quite a bit of research at the museum featured in your book. It just seemed an odd coincidence is all, my having sat down here before noticing."

"Well now that is a happy surprise," the man says. 

He grins openly at Arthur, showing off a set of crooked teeth that should make him less attractive, but somehow make him even sexier. At the same time, he sweeps the collection of folders off of his table and tidies them away into his messenger bag with such haste that Arthur's convinced the guy must see him as a professional threat--possibly a PhD candidate or a post-doc with a thesis subject close to Arthur's own.

Arthur waits for the hot guy to volunteer something about the project he seems to be researching. But he says nothing. It isn't an unfriendly silence though. The other man tilts his head and offers that same lopsided grin again, as if daring Arthur to ask him about his work. Arthur refuses to rise to the bait; however, he does return the smile. 

He doesn't want to end the possibility for future conversation though, because this guy is obscenely sexy and Arthur would rather talk than have to sneak glances at him all throughout lunch So he pops out of his seat, extends a hand and says, "I'm Arthur."

"Ethan," the man responds. 

Arthur thinks they're playing a very specific kind of academic game that's become too familiar to him in recent years: Trying to sound impressive and smart, while dancing around the true nature's of one's work, just in case the other person is a credit thief or an idea stealer. 

But it's slightly different from the usual version, because Arthur doesn't actually know anything about the person with whom he's playing this time around. Usually it's played at an academic conference or in some field research setting, where he's at least heard the other person's name before and knows whether or not he or she is supposedly enough of a rising star that Arthur should bother trying to get to know him or her. The game ends with one person having his brilliance validated and the other consumed with jealousy, and possibly heading off to the bar.

But since Arthur knows nothing about this Ethan--other than his immediate reading selections, first name and the fact that Arthur wants to lick his neck--it's not quite the usual sort of play. For fuck's sake, Ethan could be a well-read hobbyist, attempting to draw out the impression of being a fellow academic for as long as possible. He could be a late-in-life undergraduate for all Arthur knows. At the moment, he doesn't think he cares, either.

"So Arthur," Ethan says, drawing out the 'Rs' to nearly ridiculous effect. "As a former associate of the museum, what did you think of Ms. Stanford-Welshler's book?"

"Well it certainly provides a comprehensive overview of the subject. But I thought it failed to offer new insight to the academic reader and was a bit too esoteric for a lay audience. I wish she'd decided to go one way or the other, to be honest." 

"Hmmmm ... " 

"You disagree?"

"No. Not necessarily. It just seems a bit of a common problem these days, doesn't it? Researchers think that they want to reach out directly to the public and share their work, but they're so caught up in their Ivory Tower mindsets that they can't actually climb down the wall and cross the moat, so to speak."

"So what is the solution then?"

"I haven't the foggiest. I just hear all these doctoral candidates talking about how they want to publish for a wider audience, but even if they can convince their advisers to let them make an attempt, they haven't a clue how to achieve that goal. I think perhaps it's a lost cause. Academia and the real world are forever doomed to be two ships passing in the night."

They continue talking when Arthur's order arrives, switching topics from the isolation of the professorial life, to the brilliance of the second book on Ethan's pile, to the indignity of Arthur having to teach history of agriculture, to his general irritation with the lack of interest from all of his students. 

Although the conversation is stimulating in a casual, non-competitive way that he hasn't experienced since early in graduate school, Arthur's mind is only three-quarters focused on Ethan's ideas. The other quarter of his mind is racing around circles wondering if he has food in his teeth, if he's picking up any signals that Ethan could be gay, if Arthur is _giving_ off the right signals to let Ethan know he's both gay and interested and if his outfit is too formal compared to Ethan's own urban lumberjack attire. 

Most of all Arthur wonders how he can find a way to get Ethan's phone number, or at least his email address, or find out where to track him down at a later date. Even if he's straight, he's the most interesting conversationalist Arthur has met in ages and seems fairly brilliant in his own subversive, devil's advocate-driven way. It's utterly ridiculous, but the thought of finally meeting someone interesting in this city and never seeing him again pains Arthur much more than he'd care to admit, even just to himself. It doesn't bother Arthur nearly as much as it should that he still has no idea where Ethan studies or works or what he does with his time besides reading and and sitting around in the afternoon looking sexy.

After Arthur polishes off his sandwich along with a scandalous _two_ beers, and Ethan nearly gives him a heart attack by methodically licking all of the frosting off the top of a cupcake, Arthur realizes that he only has 10 minutes to make it back to his office in time to face his students. 

"Lord help me," he says, shifting to a half-standing position. "But I have to go fulfill my obligatory office hours so that the students can come and whine to me about how my class is too hard, or my grades are too tough, or my deadlines are too strict or any number of other things."

"I think you had better take a coffee for the road Arthur," Ethan replies. "You wouldn't want a disgruntled student making any accusations of drunkenness against you. He turns to a passing waitress and asks, "could my friend here have a coffee to go? You can put it on my tab." 

"Sure. Cream, sugar?" she asks.

"Skim milk, no sugar," Arthur replies distractedly while thinking: "Surely that's enough of a sign that he's potentially interested, right? He bought you coffee. Isn't coffee purchasing the universal signal for 'I think you're attractive and want to have sex with you?' Or does that just pertain coffee-related invitations?"

"Here," Ethan says and hands Arthur a couple of sticks of gum that he's fished out of his bag. The action gives Arthur an idea and he reaches into his own satchel to grab a business card from an inside pocket.

"Thanks. Hey listen, this has been illuminating. If you ever want to chat again, here's my contact information," Arthur says as he hands it over, trying to play the exchange as casually as possible, in case Ethan does turn out to be straight. In that event, Arthur is just a potential colleague interested in more shop talk. Of course, he doesn't exactly know what Ethan's "shop" is, but that's semantics at this point.

He leaves with a sleeveless cup burning his hand through the paper and an irrepressible smile on his face. 

___

That happiness feels like ancient history just 45 minutes later when a girl in Arthur's morning philosophy of science course is oozing crocodile tears at the unfairness of receiving a C+ on her latest paper.

"I'm sorry you're so unhappy Miss Forester, I really am, but this work did not merit any higher grade than the one I gave you," he says and keeps the thought that he'd actually been generous private.

"But Professor Novak you don't understand, if I don't get an A in this class, it will screw up my entire GPA. My parents will be furious. I took a philosophy class last year and got an A. I don't understand why this one is so much harder."

"First of all, Miss Forester having done well in a previous course in the philosophy department does not entitle you to receive the same grade in a different philosophy course. Secondly, there will be plenty of opportunities to pull up your grade. We haven't even reached the midterm mark yet. I would suggest that you apply yourself to the next paper with a greater degree of thought and attention. Simply reciting back the tenants of the reading assignments does not qualify as A-grade work, and doing it sloppily doesn't merit Bs, either. But if you put a little thought into your thesis and try to find a way to say something new, then maybe you can move up a full letter grade. I'm sure you can do it."

"But professor I'm just a sophomore. Isn't coming up with new ideas your job?"

"Everyone can strive to extract a new tidbit from a classic idea, or to put a new spin on the mainstream interpretations of a body of work. I don't expect you to come up with a 100 percent unique philosophy, Miss Forester. But I do assume that you're capable of doing more than merely reiterating what you've read like a parrot."

"I really think you're asking too much of us professor. It's not fair. I really need to get a good grade in this class. I have to fulfill my math requirement next semester and I have to keep a high GPA until then. Why can't you listen to reason?"

"Miss Forester, I believe that I am being quite reasonable. This isn't high school. A higher caliber of work is expected of you here."

"But like I told you, I got an A in my intro class last year. I looked you up. I know you're really in the history department, not philosophy. Maybe you just don't understand the way the system works over here."

"Miss Forester, I promise you, I may not actually be a full member of this particular department, but I'm very aware of our university's academic standards. Now if you're still having trouble when our next papers are due, then please feel free to come back here and we can discuss your ideas before the final product is due. But please remember to come in advance. I'm not going to help you sort through your thesis hours before you have to turn it in."

"OK professor," she pouts, putting her disputed paper back into her bag and slumping out the door, the picture of dejection. 

The meeting was pretty typical and, actually, preferable to the two students who had threatened him last semester--one with a lawsuit, the other with a complaint to the dean. 

The worst part is how old and crotchety these office hours always made Arthur feel. He inevitably wants to shake his fist at the students and tell them to learn some respect for knowledge or get the hell out of his institution. 

"When did this become my life?" he thinks. "Teaching two courses that are only tangentially related to my actual subject with hardly any time to conduct my own research. Not to mention my desperate resentment of my own students for their lack of interest and their role in keeping me from publishing as much as I really need to to advance my career. When does this vicious cycle end? Tenure? Retirement? Motherfucker! I'm so screwed."

___

As sad as he feels admitting it to himself, Arthur had planned to go home after work, maybe drink a little bit more, and get himself off to fantasies about Ethan's bee-stung lips and high cheekbones, not to mention the broad shoulders that taper down to the V of Ethan's lithe-looking waist. Arthur is also fairly certain that Ethan has amazing ass and he very much wishes he'd had the opportunity to prove this theory correct. Unfortunately, Mr. Urban Lumberjack had remained seated throughout their entire conversation. 

The pitiful part is that Arthur was actually really looking forward to this little jerk-off session. It was as if he'd made a date with his fantasy Ethan and had been anticipating it all afternoon. But he's in such a rough mood after office hours that he doesn't feel up to it. Strangely, it feels like he'd be doing a disservice to his imaginary version of Ethan, or possibly a disservice to Arthur's own imagination--one or the other, maybe both. 

___

He has no problem reviving his fantasies a week later when he gets an email with a subject line that lists his order at the Belgian place--kip-kerrie sandwich, green salad, two Hoegaardens and a coffee to go. The address is doubly@gmail.com. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Arthur thinks, but he's quick to open the message, almost certain that it's from Ethan.

Inside there is only one line: "Thought of you when I read this," and a link blog post from the Chronicle of Higher Education's website. There's no name listed or signature given.

Arthur had missed the piece. But he can't concentrate when he tries to read it, even though its subject is near and dear to his heart. Ethan's face keeps flashing in his mind's eye and he feels a hot burst of lust rush through his entire body like an electrical current. 

He briefly considers jerking off at his desk, before he remembers that while the little window in his office door too high for him to see out of, not all of his students are so vertically challenged. Instead he gets up and walks down three flights of stairs to the soda machines, where he purchases a diet ginger ale and leans against the wall with it pressed to his forehead. 

"I have become a pitiful specimen of a man," he thinks. "I have got to get a grip on myself here, and not in the dirty sense, or I will fuck up this response."

Arthur is at a loss for how to reply to Ethan's message. He's about 90 percent certain that Mr. Sexy Plaid Shirt Tight Jeans is gay--or interested in sleeping with men in some capacity--but it's been so long since he actually tried to pursue someone for anything beyond a one-night stand that Arthur actually has no idea how to approach the situation. 

Honestly, Arthur hasn't properly dated anyone since he and Robert broke up. Considering that they'd started dating during the summer between freshman and sophomore years of college, none of his seduction techniques are remotely applicable to this situation, if they ever even existed in the first place. He doesn't remember having to do a lot of wooing back then. He and Robert just sort of fell together like they couldn't help themselves. It didn't take much work. 

Arthur thinks he and Robert had probably fallen in the kind of love that you can only experience when you're still mostly a kid. He remembers it as pure and untainted by the layers of expectation and ambition that, in his observation, complicate adult relationships. Arthur had loved Robert like he was an extension of himself. They were thoroughly intertwined in every thought and deed. 

The year they'd spent living together in Chicago after graduation, while Arthur interned at the Field Museum and applied to graduate schools, was the happiest of his life, no question. When Arthur went to Ann Arbor and Robert off to DC, they'd managed to keep things going long distance. It was both excruciatingly difficult--Arthur felt like he'd lost a limb by not having Robert physically in his presence every day--and surprisingly easy--because Arthur was never once tempted to cheat and still shared every aspect of his new life with Robert over the phone and via email. 

But when Robert signed a two-year contract for a job in China they'd decided that they had no choice but to end their relationship.Those last fights had been awful, gut-wrenching shouting matches over the phone and then, finally, in Arthur's tiny apartment. 

He had actually begged and pleaded with Robert not to go, but Robert said it was necessary for his career development and pointed out that he hadn't protested when Arthur went to graduate school in Michigan, even though he'd also been accepted to a less-prestigious program in Delaware, one that was only a few hours drive from Robert's Washington internship. 

By the time Arthur had recovered from his broken heart, he'd seen the strain of academic ambition ruin countless relationships and careers--depending on whether the couples chose to break up or to decline opportunities. In response, he swore off all dating until he had firmly established himself in a tenure-track position somewhere. He simply refused to endure that level of heartache again.

At the same time, he'd felt that if wasn't able to compromise his career plans for Robert-- if he was at least partially responsible for sacrificing their relationship on the altar of his own lofty aspirations--then he certainly wasn't going to deign to do it for anyone else. 

As a result, his sex life was limited to a lot of one-or-two-nighters at academic conferences--which Arthur basically considered sexual buffet tables--along with an occasional pickup at non-sketchy bars in the Midwestern college towns he'd made his home for the past eleven years. 

When he'd moved to New York in the Fall, Arthur realized that his game is comparatively weak. He has no idea how to pursue an adult relationship with someone who isn't a fellow academic and he possesses a near-pathological fear of accidentally sleeping with a student. 

Additionally, his meager assistant professor's salary is hardly a boon for impressing dates. 

The end result is that Arthur is actually in a place where he feels ready to go out with people beyond a desire to just get laid. He finally has a goal of a real relationship. But he hasn't had a boyfriend since he was 23 and he doesn't know how to go about winning one. But he'd really like to try with Ethan, who was not only ridiculously sexy, but clever and witty and well-read and fiercely intelligent. He was like a checklist of everything Arthur had thought about wanting in a theoretical boyfriend, but always figured he'd have to settle for compromising on to some degree. 

If he just wanted to have sex with Ethan and move on, Arthur's pretty sure he could accomplish that. He may be clueless about dating, but he's pretty good with a pickup, at least when the target moves in his own intellectual circles. But as much as he'd really, _really_ like to see and touch and taste Ethan's naked body, he'd also like to be able to see him again a week later, and email him relevant news clippings throughout the week, and text him random thoughts at night before bed, and hold his hand in the movie theater, and sit across from him at a dinner party while sharing a secret smile.

"I'm lost at sea here," Arthur tells himself. "I truly have no idea what to write back in order to convey authentic interest, while still being flirtatious."

He decides to call a friend from his stint as a post-doc in Missouri. Ariadne was always urging him to have an actual love life, not just a sex life. She'll probably be thrilled to offer advice in this arena.

"Good afternoon, this is Ariadne Zell," says the voice on the other end of the line. She must have some sort of job or grant opportunity expected to come due, because her tone is all business.

"Ari, it's Arthur, I'm in desperate need of some advice. Do you have a minute? Are you expecting a call?"

"Arthur! How the Hell are you? And what on earth makes you think that a lowly graduate student such as myself could possibly have anything to offer your bad assistant professorial self?"

"It's not professional advice. It's ... um ... it's relationship advice."

"OH MY GOD, Arthur! Hold on let me shut my office door. I want to hear everything. I will do my utmost to guide you through these perilous waters." 

Arthur smiles as he hears Ariadne's footsteps pounding in the distance, followed by a legitimate door slamming. She's always had a flair for the dramatic.

"OK tell me everything. You have a boyfriend? Please tell me that you, Arthur Novak, king of the hold-them-at-arm's-length, love-'em-and-leave-'em lifestyle has finally, finally been made into an honest man."

"Ariadne that is patently unfair. I do not hold anyone at arm's length and mutually agreed one-or-two-night stands with distant colleagues a few times a year is hardly grounds for painting me as the playboy of academia."

"Arthur, I've heard all the excuses. Spill. The longer you hold out on me the more stories I'm going to tell this fella at your now-legal-in-New-York gay wedding."

"Jesus. Let's scale this back a bit. I do not have a boyfriend."

"Arthur if you are calling me on behalf of that depressed architect friend of yours again, I swear I will call everyone I've ever met who lives or works in New York and compel them to form a lynch mob headed straight for your office."

"No, no it's not about Cobb. I promise I will never ask you for advice about women on his behalf again. I thought you might have been able to help and his questions were completely out of my depth."

"Yeah, well next time send him to a therapist, OK. There are limits, Arthur, even for you."

"Noted. Now my point in calling was to ask you for some advice about my own woes, so if we can continue on to that?"

"Yes, please, let's do. So what's going on?"

Arthur proceeds to tell Ariadne everything about the chance meeting at the Belgian place, including that he's still not entirely 100 percent sure Ethan is even into men, and then about the email. Arthur probably spends an inordinate amount of time describing Ethan's lips and eyes and smile and accent. It's borderline embarrassing, except that Ariadne seems to be eating it up with a spoon.

"OK seriously, if he turns out to be straight and you two become platonic buddies, I am spending spring break in New York and you are introducing me to this Ethan."

"What if I'm pining away and hoping to turn him?"

"You're on a deadline, Arthur."

"You wouldn't dare, Ariadne, not after all the time you've spent haranguing me to start dating again."

"Sigh. You're right. I wouldn't. OK here's what I think. You should respond casually, make some insightful, but brief, statement about the article and leave it at that. Then, in a few days, find something to send him in return and try to make it not too dry or nerdy. I know that might be difficult for you, but I trust you can find something. If he responds to that in less than a week--or if he takes longer but has a very, very good excuse--then ask him if he hangs out frequently at that bar where you met and mention that you went back on the same day of the week as when you first met, but didn't see him. Obviously, you have to actually have done this, just in case he actually is there. The rest should work itself out with either a plan to meet up there again or an invitation to hit up some other place."

"Or radio silence."

"I doubt that will happen. I mean he did go out of his way to email you this article, when he was under no obligation to ever see or talk to you again."

"So best-case scenario, we're looking at potentially another week and a half before we can even discuss making plans to spend time together in some capacity?"

"Well you might run into him at the bar before then."

"Fine. Even cutting a few days off that timeline, it seems awfully long to me."

"That's what he said."

"Christ, Ariadne, even my students wouldn't have gone for that low-hanging fruit."

"Maybe not in front of you, but they definitely would have. You set yourself up."

"Getting back on track, why not cut to the quick by asking him about the bar now?"

"You big city boys sure work fast," she says, sporting a fake cowgirl accent.

"Ariadne," he warns.

"OK fine, look. I don't know. Do what feels right. I just think you should establish yourself as someone worth making a bit of an effort for, because you are a very small fish in a very big pond right now and if you don't want to be the victim of your own wham-bam-thank-you-sir treatment, then you'd better present yourself as little more of a friend and potential colleague first. Otherwise what's the point?"

"The point is that we have great chemistry, intelligent conversations and we're both hot. What more do we need?"

"And modest too. ... Fine. Do it your way, because it's been so successful for you so far."

"It has been for what I wanted."

"You're making me feel really depressed about men right now Arthur."

"Ariadne, Jesus, I'm not the bad guy here. Pursuing a relationship is totally different than pursuing sex. I refuse to feel guilty for doing the latter. And it's not like I'm some no-strings-attached commitment-phobe. I am capable of having a relationship. I've just chosen not to pursue one for the past several years."

"More than several, Arthur. You have officially been single for twice the amount of time you were in a relationship. That puts you in borderline I-can't-commit territory."

"But I can. And I want to try it again. I'm finally in a place where it seems worth it and have finally met a guy that I'd be willing to go out on a limb to get--make that several limbs, a whole fucking tree. Now please help me figure out how to make it happen."

Arthur convinces Ariadne that he's going to die if he has to sit around for the better part of two weeks biding his time and that he very much doubts Ethan would be put out by a little eagerness on his part. In the end, they decide to speed up the timeline with a reply today and a fresh link tomorrow, provided he can find a good one, followed by a bar-related message in a few days. 

___

Naturally Arthur frets about finding the perfect story to send Ethan. He wants it to be clever and witty, but still insightful, like the blog post Eames had sent, which Arthur had responded to with a funny anecdote about one of his class discussions. But not too much like it. He doesn't want to seem like someone without his own thought process.

He's online at Midnight, surfing for newspaper articles and skips his morning workout to head straight to his office in search of something interesting from the variety of blogs he follows. He hasn't obsessed this much over impressing someone since, well possibly ever, certainly not since college.

The problem, of course, is that Ethan knows a lot more about Arthur's life than the other way around. He knows Ethan's opinion on a variety of books and scholarly works, but still has no idea what the other man studies or does for a living. Arthur doesn't even know where Ethan lives, other than presumably in the area.

In the end he lucks out and notices a feature on butterfly collecting in the Wall Street Journal that's equally scientific and literary, with plenty of mentions of Nabakov. It will do. He sends it to Ethan along with a note about how he still has a shadow box of moths that he made for the 8th grade science fair, but how it's more art than taxonomy to him these days after decorating the walls of so many of his apartments over the years.

Two hours later Ethan responds with a note about Joseph Cornell. Writing back wasn't part of the plan, but Arthur can't help himself. He's compelled to send a quote from _Martin Dressler_ , which Ethan responds to to say it was a pivotal text earlier in his life and that he has a quote from _In the Penny Arcade_ tattooed on an unspecified part of his body.

Arthur's mouth actually waters. Even though he knows the information was almost certainly shared with the intent of inviting Arthur to ask about the location of the tattoo, only to be denied further information--strictly spring-break-in-Florida level flirting--he can't help himself. Naturally, Ethan won't tell him, but he doesn't take the obvious next step and invite Arthur to guess or to try to find out on his own. Instead he goes off on a rant about a recent highly acclaimed novel about the early 19th Century tattooing industry and how deeply disappointed he was when he read it, after having had such high hopes.

Their email conversation is as lively as their real life one at the Belgian spot. It weaves throughout day's events, with a new message always waiting for him after each class or meeting, but never more than one. It's like a perfectly timed game of correspondence chess. Arthur doesn't know why he was so worked up the day before.

Of course, by the time he gets home, he's worked up in an entirely different way--practically jumping out of his skin with every shift of his clothing. He's consumed with thinking about Ethan's sinful mouth and imagining how the tattoo they'd discussed would taste under Arthur's tongue.

He desperately wants to have a long, drawn out fantasy about sex with Ethan. But he's a little wary, in general, of fantasizing too much about people he might actually have a chance at fucking--or at being fucked by, whichever, it doesn't matter--in real life. He thinks it can set up expectations that might be impossible to meet. 

Instead he just settles for a basic fantasy about Ethan's DSLs wrapped around him, and doesn't fill in too many details. Arthurs feels fairly certain that the reality of fucking Ethan's mouth can live up to the filthy hot image in his mind. There is just no way those lips wouldn't look like the prettiest thing in the world if wrapped around a hard cock, preferably Arthur's

Arthur has a theory about sex, or at least about his own experiences, but he thinks it's probably broadly applicable. He's fairly certain that anyone who has been in an at least semi-significant relationship learns, or re-learns, their techniques based on that partner's likes and dislikes. 

He knows that there are things he does when giving head, for example, that he added to his repertoire because they drove Robert wild. Ten years later, he continues to do them every time, unless specifically asked not to. Likewise, he can't help having everything he knows about actual fucking be influenced by that relationship, since it was the source of both of his first times.

What sometimes bothers Arthur is that his own body is so conditioned by those early experiences that it still craves them years later--not specifically Robert, he's finally, finally over him, thank God--just the way things worked between them physically. To this day, Arthur's body still wants to be positioned in a certain way, or touched or licked or stroked or fucked or received in very specific ways, because that's what it is conditioned to think of as the best. 

Arthur knows he's not alone in this difficulty. He's sensed it with other people in the midst of hooking up with them. Even though they're both having a good time and getting off, Arthur sometimes feels like he and the other guy he's with at the moment are having a little bit of a tug of war, each trying to persuade the other to do things exactly the way someone else has in the past. Arthur likes to think of himself as a considerate lover, but there's only so much instructing and requesting that's worth bothering with for a one-nighter. 

This isn't to say that Arthur has bad sex. He's very choosy about his partners and as a result almost always has good sex. But he wants to have _great_ , mind-blowing, think-about-it-throughout-the-next-morning-at-work sex again. 

What he really, truly longs for is a phenomenon he has termed "paradigm shifting sex," where his partner's body and skills are different and exciting enough to erase all of those old conditioned desires and replace them with something completely new and thrilling. He's convinced it can happen if only he meets the right guy and they learn each others bodies the way they know their own. 

Arthur expands the fantasy slightly to include Ethan jamming his own hand into the open fly of his ridiculously tight jeans, unable to wait until he's finished Arthur to start jerking himself off. Imaginary Ethan looks up at him through his eyelashes, gorgeous cheekbones accentuated by the sucking motion, and Arthur comes hard enough to hit the edge of his shirt, which he'd rucked up all the way to his collarbone to keep out of the way. 

"Christ, I've got to find a way to get Ethan into bed," Arthur thinks. "Sooner rather than later."


	2. And I Bet and You Exploded Into My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur and Eames go on a date and have sexy, sexy times.

A bout of terrible weather, accompanied by a busy schedule, means it's Monday before Arthur finally gets away from his office for long enough to drop by the Belgian place, ostensibly for takeaway, but really in search of Ethan. They've continued emailing, although the pace has been dialed back to one or two messages a day during the week and none on weekends. Arthur doesn't order ahead on the off chance Ethan is there, which would give him just enough time for a quick chat before departing. But of course, he isn't anywhere to be found. 

"It was a ridiculous long shot," Arthur reminds himself. "And anyway not finding him here was part of the plan, so that you could ask him to meet up somewhere else instead."

But luck must be on Arthur's side, because as he's bustling out the door, balancing a steaming cup of coffee and sack lunch, he literally bumps right into Ethan.

"Pardon me," Ethan says in a clipped voice before looking up, with an expression of pleased recognition spreading across his face. "Why Arthur, hullo. On your way out? Any chance I could persuade you to change your mind?"

"On my way to a departmental meeting, unfortunately. Brown bag," Arthur says, hoisting the item in question. 

"Shame," Ethan replies, looking genuinely disappointed.

Arthur knows the iron is probably never going to be hotter.

"Maybe we could get together sometime, instead of continuing to bump randomly into each other around here."

Arthur tries to project an air of casual confidence, as if he really doesn't care what Ethan says in response.

"Would this be a date then?" Ethan asks, smirking slightly.

Arthur steps forward, crowding ever so slightly into Ethan's personal space.

"It would if you'd like it to be," he says, allowing his voice to drop a register.

He's well aware that Ethan has the upper hand at the moment--the ability to turn this into something with much less potential, or into nothing at all--but Arthur wants to make it abundantly clear that he's not a pushover and shouldn't be dicked around with regarding this decision.

"Sure. Why not?" Ethan's responds, and his off-hand manner might piss Arthur off if it weren't for the full and bright smile that spreads across his face, revealing those crooked teeth and making Arthur long to kiss him. "What were you thinking?"

"Well to be honest, I wasn't. It popped into my head just now," Arthur responds. 

It's not entirely truthful. But it's right in a round-about sort of way. He'd figured this whole conversation would take place much more casually over email and involve some sort of time-and-place back-and-forth, rather than a more traditional asking-out scenario.

Ethan leans back against the wall of the restaurant's glassed-in entryway, angling his body toward Arthur's and looking up through his eyelashes. It's a small flirtation, which Arthur interprets it as a concession for the distant attitude of his initial answer. But it's enough to make his chest feel slightly tight and his stomach fluttery like a teenager.

"Could you do Thursday? I'll be traveling at the weekend."

"Sure. So, where do you live? Might as well try go make it convenient." 

"Red Hook. You?" 

"Astoria."

"Bugger. Nothing convenient about that." 

____ 

When Arthur departs a few minutes later, he's practically floating down the sidewalk. 

They'd made plans to meet in the late afternoon at the PS1 museum in Long Island City, which Arthur has been meaning to visit since he moved last Fall ("It's brilliant. You'll love it," Ethan had said), and then to grab a bite somewhere nearby. Arthur was in charge of figuring out the meal to follow, which was a nice bit of date-planning deference from Ethan, who could probably have suggested some options, having been to the museum before. 

Best of all, Ethan had casually kissed Arthur's cheek before he proceeded into the restaurant. It wasn't anything more than a casual, friendly goodbye--the kind Arthur gives to female friends and colleagues all the time. But it somehow felt intimate, as if Ethan were inviting him into some kind of inner circle, officially making him more than just a random acquaintance. 

___

By Thursday morning, Arthur is actually whistling as he walks from his Subway stop to his office. 

He knows that unless the afternoon's activities take some kind of crazy turn, he's almost certainly going to end the evening having some kind of sex with Ethan. 

He's obviously not a dating expert--not in the sense of spending time and money getting to know someone and cultivating affection for him before getting each other off, anyway--but he just can't imagine a scenario in which two openly gay, adult men put themselves in a romantic-type situation and don't get physical. It's practically unheard of, in Arthur's experience, and thank fucking God for that. He doesn't know how straight guys can put up with all the rules and runaround that seem to come part and parcel with dating women. 

Obviously, he hopes that this date with Ethan will lead to more than just one night of fucking--or whatever--but Arthur can't help feeling an electric current of anticipation running under his skin at the prospect of getting his hands on Ethan's body, something he's been wanting to do since he first laid eyes on the man.

Arthur wonders how Ethan likes to fuck. Arthur himself is completely versatile and for a one-night stand he doesn't much care how it plays out, as long as it's fun. But the idea of having an actual relationship with someone who doesn't switch hit isn't ideal. He hopes to God Ethan is as open as he is himself.

___

Try as he might, Arthur can't stop himself from imagining, at least a little bit, how it will unfold--what Ethan will taste like, how he will smell up close and skin-to-skin, the kinds of noises he will or won't make. 

It's borderline impossible for Arthur to maintain his focus during class discussion that morning. His skin is flushed and prickly and his clothes feel too hot against his body from thoughts of sex with Ethan that have been thrumming through the back of his mind all day. 

It's the furthest thing in the world from professional, but Arthur tapes a pretty botanical print over the window in his office door and uses the privacy to bring himself off quickly and efficiently just before sneaking off campus to meet Ethan during his canceled office hours. 

It's a necessary risk though. If he'd showed up at the museum in that condition, he'd have ended up blowing Ethan in the bathroom within 15 minutes of meeting up. Not that the idea doesn't have some merit--it's enough to get him off sitting in his office chair using freebie hotel hand lotion, after all--but Arthur would prefer to start their potential relationship on a classier note. Hopefully there will be plenty of time to get filthy with Ethan later tonight, after they've spent a little more time chatting and acting like adults.

___

"Arthur!," Ethan calls to him from the sidewalk outside the museum's entrance. 

He's wearing a shabby shearling coat, very Brooklyn hipster. But Arthur can see that underneath this he's sporting some high-quality, very tailored-looking grey trousers--Arthur was totally right about Ethan's ass, he notes when the other man bends down to grab his messenger bag--and a pair of exquisite-looking shoes.

Arthur is much too poor to afford truly nice clothes. A huge portion of his income goes toward being able to live in his closet of an apartment without a roommate. But he does have many non-sexual fantasies about menswear while online window shopping, and Ethan's shoes are a dream come to life.

Arthur's prepared this time when Ethan leans forward, so he touches the other man's arm lightly as they exchange kisses of greeting and then lets his hand slide around to the small of Ethan's back as they walk toward then entrance. Ethan's coat is soft and well worn and Arthur can't help stroking it softly with his thumb before letting go as they cross the threshold. 

Once inside, the exhibits give them plenty of conversation topics. Arthur enjoys the interactive material, particularly the sound-based pieces. But he can't help repressing a giggle at the top-hatted performance artist who seems to be demonstrating his chalk dust-making skills. Ethan must see it on his face, because he exacerbates the problem by winking and nudging Arthur's ribs gently, making it nearly impossible for Arthur to stay straight faced. 

Out of his coat, Ethan is looking hotter than ever in an outfit that's oddly reminiscent of an F. Scott Fitzgerald character (which really shouldn't work, but it fucking does). Maybe later they can throw some of Arthur's shirts around his room. (OK probably not.) 

Arthur probably shouldn't be as surprised as he is that Ethan knows so much about contemporary art. The guy seems to know something about every subject under the sun, and genuinely enhances the experience with plenty of fascinating background tidbits and opinions. Naturally, Arthur finds himself deferring a little bit as their conversation progresses. 

At one point, as Arthur declines to argue about the artistic value of a cluster of tee-pee-shaped objects Ethan makes a tsk sound and says, "don't agree with me just for the sake of it, Arthur. I can practically see the doubt seeping out of your pores. Tell me what you really think. I'm not a fragile butterfly, for God's sake."

At the mention of his pores, Arthur compulsively raises his hand to his nose, without quite realizing he's done it until it's too late to disguise the gesture. This makes Ethan laugh, and what might have turned into a tense moment is broken. 

"I'm not trying to be all gentlemanly or, you know, like a straight guy in some idiotic romantic comedy that you watch on an airplane, because you somehow can't help yourself. You just seem to have a lot of actual fact-based knowledge, beyond just random personal opinion. I'm a professor. I can't help it. I defer to fact-based authority."

Ethan laughs again and takes Arthur's arm, imploring him to share what he really thought as he steers them into the next room.

Suddenly Arthur is consumed with a wish that they were an established couple, so that he could lean over and kiss Ethan. He desperately wants to mark the moment--reward them both for their combined honesty and levity. But it would be an awfully strange way to share a first kiss--fleeting and in public. Arthur is pretty sure that when the moment finally comes, he won't be able to stop right away. 

Anyway, he wouldn't want to make Ethan uncomfortable by doing something that could come off as totally possessive completely out of the blue. Perhaps Ethan is feeling something similar, however, because he looks up with his face aglow, then immediately bites his lip when he sees Arthur gazing back so fondly. Arthur has always thought confidence was his number-one turn-on, but this simultaneously shy and open expression is sending heat flooding throughout his body and pooling low in his belly, the way it feels right before his cock starts to harden. 

"Let's say I tell you over a drink before dinner?" he asks. "We've only got 15 minutes until closing time anyway."

A few minutes later they're tucked into a corner table at a nearby bar with two glasses of wine. Ethan's leg is playfully hooked around Arthur's chair--although they aren't actually touching--and he's smiling indulgently as he listens to Arthur explain why he didn't like the metal tee-pees. Everything is progressing beautifully. If Arthur wasn't worried about a soon-to-be-growling stomach, he might even try to make a move now, bring Ethan home, fuck him and order take-out afterward. 

Then out of the blue, he hears someone shouting in their general direction and Ethan's entire body language changes. He stiffens, removing his leg to his own chair, and sitting up straight as a choirboy. A round-faced South Asian man with wild, curly hair appears and palms Ethan's shoulder, grinning.

"Eames what are you doing in the neighborhood?" he asks. 

Arthur feels a pinch of jealousy, wondering if this guy could be one of Ethan's lovers---former or current. His date is certainly looking uncomfortable enough to be someone trapped between two suitors competing for his affection. But a realization that he'd just heard Ethan's last name for the first time jolts Arthur out of his sour reaction just in time for an introduction. 

"Yusuf, this is Arthur. Arthur, my mate Yusuf."

"Cheers." 

"Pleased to meet you." 

Yusuf manages to grab a chair and says he'll stay for a chat while Ethan and Arthur finish their wine. 

The vibe is decidedly uncomfortable. Arthur senses that the other two are communicating via a series of subtle gestures and pointed looks, but he can't pick anything except that Ethan clearly wants Yusuf to leave and Yusuf seems intent on acting oblivious to that fact. 

In response to a question about his job, Yusuf says: "Oh a little of this, a little of that. Computers generally."

And when he hears that Arthur is a professor he raises his eyebrows in what could only be called shock. 

Arthur figures he must be some kind of criminal, maybe a drug dealer. He doesn't look like someone who spends his days riding a bike around the city, but perhaps he manages the actual delivery guys or something. 

"Maybe it's nothing," Arthur thinks. "Maybe Yusuf is a co-worker or acquaintance who Ethan isn't out to and he doesn't want him to realize that we're on a date."

Whatever's happening, Arthur doesn't have any more time to try to puzzle it out. The second he finishes his wine, Ethan stands up and makes their excuses. 

Arthur feels left out and annoyed. He knows it's not Ethan's fault--Eames's fault apparently--that some off-putting acquaintance or frienemy of his crashed their date. But he can't help his irritation at being so excluded as soon as Yusuf had appeared. 

"I'm so sorry about that, Arthur," Ethan says the moment they're outside. His face is completely unguarded and utterly anguished looking. "Yusuf is a bit of a twat, but I ... he's done me some favors and I owe him. We have some friends in common and he helped me out when I first moved here and didn't have a job."

"Is he involved in something illegal?" Arthur finds himself blurting out, without really intending to. 

Ethan looks pained. 

"Ethan, I'm not _your_ professor. I don't give a fuck if he's your weed dealer, OK. You both just seemed really nervous and shady. You don't have to be afraid of me like that. I'm not _totally_ uptight."

Arthur offers a friendly smile and Ethan looks relieved. 

"Well it's a bit more complicated than that," Ethan says. "I think he does actually sell drugs a bit, perhaps. I try not to know anything about that side of his life, just in case. He's also ... " he looks around the sidewalk. "Promise you won't tell?"

"Yes"

"He's a computer hacker. I mean not to steal or anything like that. Just for fun. I don't really know anything about it, but he did help me get my website up and running and he is a decent bloke when you get to know him. But he's completely jumpy about meeting people who he thinks are going to suss him out or turn him in or something. I'm truly sorry. This is the last kind of turn that I wanted this evening to take." 

Arthur smirks, grateful for the honesty and the opportunity to steer the conversation back to a more flirty, lighthearted topic.

"What kind of turn _were_ you hoping it would take?" 

The look Ethan give him in return makes it very clear that Arthur can take him home any time he likes. 

But Arthur is still on edge from the Yusuf encounter and decides that he wants to spend a little more time getting to know this mysterious "Eames" before having sex with him. It's, honestly, a bit of a revelation for Arthur. He hasn't felt this way in years. Of course, when one has sex with distant colleagues, one usually knows enough about them to judge their worthiness without having to spend a lot of time chatting. But it still surprises Arthur that he's in no immediate rush to get home and into Ethan's--Eame's--pants.

"Well as a punishment, Mr. Ethan _Eames_ , you're going to have to accompany me to dinner before getting to round that particular curve. And since you've managed to deny me the singular pleasure of Google stalking you before our date, you're going to tell me all about yourself."

Ethan laughs. 

"Very well, Arthur. Lead the way." 

"I'm going to assume that, having had my card for nearly three weeks, you already know everything there is to know about me."

"Very little, actually. Before I first messaged you, I looked you up on the university's website, just to make sure you actually were who you said you were. So I've seen your page and your CV. But that's pretty much it, honestly. I didn't even look at them too closely. Seemed invasive."

"What's wrong with you? You should secretly know absolutely everything about me that the Internet can provide and then have to force yourself to pretend you don't while we're talking, so that you can note discrepancies between my self perception and reality."

"I'm afraid I'm just going to have to get to know you the old-fashioned way," Ethan says, inflecting so the double meaning is plenty obvious. 

Once they've settled at the restaurant--casual Latin fusion--and placed their orders, Arthur looks up and offers Eames a grin. There's no need to make this feel like an interrogation. 

"So Ethan, or is it Eames? What's your story?"

"First off, either is fine. Most of my mates call me Eames, but most of my, um, _dates_ call me Ethan." 

He pronounces "dates" with such a filthy tone that Arthur knows he actually just means "fucks."

"What if I want to be both?"

It's a bold statement, and scary for Arthur to say out loud, but he comforts himself that in addition to the "boyfriend" meaning, Ethan--Eames, whatever he's called--could interpret it as a desire to become "fuck buddies," which would probably be acceptable for Arthur anyway, although far from his ideal situation. However Ethan takes it, it makes him smile sexily across the table, eyelids half lowered, lips slightly parted. 

"Well it's your choice then, I suppose."

Arthur decides then and there to try to call him Eames, if he can get himself in the habit. 

"In terms of my life, well it's a bit haphazard, to be honest. I do some freelance writing, I tutor high school and undergraduate students in languages and test prep, occasionally I do a little bar tending if funds are tight. Nothing you're likely to be impressed by, I'm sure." 

His tone is suddenly guarded and Arthur realizes that Eames expects Arthur to look down on his life's work from the height of his own achievements.

"Sounds like a juggling act. Which languages?"

"French, Latin, German and I've faked my way through entry level Spanish a couple of times."

"Quite the selection."

"Well I grew up studying French practically as soon as I could read and write English. Latin was added not long after. German I picked up at University and then later Swedish and a bit of Danish by extension. Finally, I labored for ages to gain a working understanding of Persian, although I confess that all my skill is on the page. I can hardly speak at all."

"Good God Eames, now I'm seriously impressed. I'm such a typical American. It's embarrassing. It killed me to learn German in college and while I know the Latin names for a lot of different animals and plants I couldn't read or write in it to save my life. I had to have some French documents translated for my degree research, because I just couldn't pick it up well enough to do the work on my own. My adviser made me get it done by three different experts, which took a huge chunk out of my grant money."

"If only you'd known me back then, darling. I have done translations, although I don't have the certifications to do the really big professional jobs, just small-time ones."

"How on earth did you learn so many languages?"

Eames looks down at the table. 

"I've been avoiding this discussion, because I know you'll be frightfully disappointed in me, although I don't think you'll be right to do so. Can't you guess?"

Arthur frowns. What the fuck is this all about? Eames is obviously some kind of linguistics genius and he has a college degree. What more could Arthur have to worry about?

"You're not here illegally are you?"

Eames exhales through his nose in surprise. 

"Not technically, no, although that's only thanks to the kindness and generosity of others." 

"Well then what is it?"

"I'm a Ph-Dropout, three years going. And although I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of, I do feel compelled to inform you that the departure was entirely my choice. The university continues to hold my place in hopes that I'll return, which is what keeps my student visa legal."

Arthur's mouth falls open a tiny bit. He'd known plenty of dropouts before, but none who seemed as smart and dedicated to knowledge as Eames does. They were all either easily distracted, un-serious or just plain incapable. His mind is a tiny bit blown.

Eames shrugs. 

"I told you you'd be disappointed."

"No, I'm just shocked. Honestly, you don't seem the type. But I guess that's why they actually want you to come back. Do you think you will?"

"I'm not particularly inclined, although I might be persuaded if the visa situation goes pear shaped. My research is completely done, or it was when I left anyway. I supposed I would have to check up on some things, just in case. But I would really rather not go back if I don't have to."

"But why? Jesus, you've done the hardest part. Well ... I think it was the hardest part. I mean the writing was tedious and made me want to pull my hair out on a daily basis--when I wasn't avoiding it by reading novels and sneaking off to the movies, anyway. But it's still just a matter of sitting down and getting it the fuck done, right? If you're freelance writing regularly then surely that would be no problem for you."

"Oh I could get it done. In fact, if you promise not to breath a word to anyone else, I'll confess that I actually have written most of it up on my own, although in a slightly different format. I just don't want to take the degree."

"But that's crazy! OK sorry, I don't mean to yell at you. Obviously you have some kind of reason. I just don't get it. I mean don't you feel, I hate to say this but, don't you feel kind of underemployed right now, all things considered?"

"To be honest--and I'm not offended, I appreciate your candor and you're taking this much better than I anticipated--I don't really think that term applies to me. I make enough money to keep the lights on and I get to spend my time how I wish. OK yes, I have to take on enough assignments or clients to pay my bills, but other than that I'm free to pick and choose. If you'll allow me a bit of candor in return, I think it's preferable to having to put up with a bunch of bureaucratic jostling and particularly to being stuck teaching lot after lot of students who don't care about my classes and act like obnoxious twats day in and day out. Pardon me for being so blunt. Again, all of this is just about my own tolerance, not a comment on your career at all. You're obviously brilliant, in every sense of the world, and have made quite the career for yourself. I just couldn't go through with it."

"OK fine, I can't deny that I bitched to you fairly extensively on the day we met about how lazy and disinterested my students are, at least so far. But I'm still, sorry for bragging, but I'm still proud of myself every single day for my accomplishment. No amount of frustration can ever take that away from me."

"And you should be, Arthur. I'm proud of my lesser, unfinished accomplishment, too. But I realized that aside from the personal satisfaction of learning, of becoming expert at something, I wasn't at all cut out for the career that comes out of that work. I disliked teaching. I tolerated the bureaucracy and position jockeying, but just barely. And, since we're being honest, I only did that because I was the favorite. But the idea of spending the rest of my life caught up in that academic pettiness and possibly loathing the very people whose minds I would be charged with improving, it was just too much. I had to escape."

Their food arrives, but they're both so caught up in conversation that they hardly take the time away from talking and reacting to do much more than taste it. Eames does, however, manage to order a second bottle of wine (how the fuck did they finish the first one so fast?), which makes Arthur fleetingly worry about his budget before diving back into the fray. This date so far has been worth a couple of nights of eating Ramen noodles, if that's what it comes to.

"But you said yourself that you've been working on your dissertation independently. So you're obviously still at least a little bit interested."

"I actually have a secret hope of publishing it as a regular non-fiction work, for general public consumption. I'm not sure my adviser would even accept it in its current form if I were to turn it in."

Arthur sighs, but doesn't feel as exasperated as he sounds. Even in the midst of debate about real, serious life subjects, the chemistry between he and Eames is singing through his body. He doesn't want their conversation to end. Well he does, but only for a temporary, sex-related hiatus.

"But Eames, you said way back in our very first-ever discussion that you don't think academic work and general-interest non-fiction can cross paths. How do you reconcile that with your secret hope?"

"Like I said, the research might have been degree-worthy, but the writing is strictly journalistic style. It's the whole reason I started freelance writing, to force myself to learn how to engage people like that, even at the expense of not giving every detail. It was brutally hard at first and I was bloody awful at it when I began."

"I don't know how you do it. I was interviewed once. It was miserable. They only take the tiniest bit of information, the broadest stuff and don't give any of the context. I was so fucking paranoid that my colleagues would read it and think I was stupid."

Eames laughs. 

"Yeah, I had to learn how to wrestle that urge to the ground."

The mental image this gives Arthur, combined with the drunkeness he's suddenly aware of as he drains his final glass of Malbec, makes him feel hot all over. Eames must notice, because he folds his napkin and bites his lower lip seductively. 

"Temporary truce?" he asks.

Arthur nods and signals the waiter for their check. 

Standing under the awning outside, Eames asks: "So, would you like to show me your ... _apartment_?" He pauses to look Arthur up and down conspicuously before finishing the sentence, leaving no doubt about exactly what it is he really wants to see. "Or have I frightened you off with my life's story?"

"I'm not scared of you," Arthur responds defiantly, and leans forward to brush his lips against Eames's, unable to wait a moment longer. 

Eames kisses him back without the slightest hesitation. His mouth is unbelievably soft and warm and moist, without being too wet. Somewhat miraculously, he doesn't taste like food or wine, just slightly sweet and decidedly arousing. At first, Arthur feels as if he could stand there kissing Eames forever. Then suddenly it isn't enough anymore. 

He pulls away.

"Let's get a cab."

Eames smiles and licks his lips, looking every inch the predator. Arthur feels a shiver run through his entire body. 

It takes a while to track down a cab and once they're inside Arthur aches to push Eames all the way horizontal on the seat and just grind against him while they make out. It takes every ounce of reserve he has to stay upright and dignified. Arthur wants Eames in the worst way, but he's not nearly drunk enough to justify fooling around in the back of a cab, something he never would have done even as a teenager. Eames runs his right hand up and down Arthur's nearest leg throughout the entire ride, seemingly unable to stop touching now that they've started.

The second they're in the driver's rearview, Arthur shoves Eames against his building's outer door and kisses him again, their bodies pressed chest-to-chest. He inches his right leg forward, pressing it between Eames's thighs and grinding every so slightly, eliciting a sharp breath against his own mouth. He can feel how hard Eames is against his body and that he's got a pretty sizeable dick, too. 

"God everything about him just keeps getting better and better," Arthur thinks with what little brain power he has left. 

He manages to fumble his keys out of his pocket and steps away to let them into the building's warmth, grabbing Eames's hand and pulling him impatiently down the hallway. As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Eames drops his bag on the floor and is kissing Arthur again--his neck, his ears, his mouth. It's like a damn has been released and all the sexual tension between them is pouring over Arthur's body. His legs feel like Jello and his hands are shaky as they roam everywhere he can reach.

"Tell me Arthur darling," Eames growls in his ear. "How do you like to play this?"

Arthur nuzzles against Eames's face and then pulls back to look him in they eye. He wants to see how the other man reacts to his answer, to make sure he knows what he's getting into.

"However you want. I'm totally versatile and open to whatever, you know, within reason." 

Eames's answering smile is filthy and Arthur knows, just knows, without any words being exchanged, that Eames shares Arthur's versatility--thank fucking God.

"You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say so, Arthur."

"Oh I think I have some idea," Arthur says leaning forward to bite Eames's ear. 

And he does. It's a relief to sense that Eames is just as eager fuck both ways as Arthur is himself. He's so overcome with desire that he can't even tell what he wants most right at this moment. Now that he knows it won't be setting a precedent for every subsequent encounter, he's more than happy to just play along and let Eames take control of the situation.

"I think I know one thing you want," Eames says and spins them around, pushing Arthur's back against the wall. "Don't think I haven't caught you looking."

Then, to Arthur's surprise and delight, Eames sinks to his knees, running his hands along Arthur's body the whole way down. 

And it's true, it's totally true. Arthur had watched those lips while they were engaged in talking, eating, grinning and just breathing. They were the first feature about Eames that Arthur had noticed and he'd wanted them wrapped around his cock ever since. 

Eames undoes Arthur's belt and buttons with his hands, but he unzips Arthur's pants with his teeth. This gets his heart racing like nobody's business, because it's practically a challenge, an admission that Eames considers himself as good at cocksucking as a whore. And fuck if that isn't the sexiest non-verbal message Arthur's ever received.

Eames licks a stripe up the shaft of Arthur's cock and then blows it dry, sending shivers running up Arthur's back. Then he gets down to business, sucking Arthur's dick all the way into the back of his throat. Arthur doesn't like a lot of teasing in a blow job--or at least not until later on, when he needs to dial things back to avoid coming too soon--and Eames is doing everything just right. 

He looks down at Eames's half-closed eyelids and hollowed cheekbones, at his cock disappearing beneath those plush lips and lets a soft groan escape from his lips. Arthur isn't a particularly noisy lover, in fact he sometimes has to make an effort to be louder, so he's sure his partner knows what he likes, but the vision of Eames fulfilling Arthur's first fantasy too much to bear silently. 

Arthur leans back with his palms the wall, opening and closing his fingers as he gives over to pleasure, zoning out on the world around him. He's so oblivious, in fact, that when he feels a slick finger stroking his asshole, gently wiggling its tip inside, he is taken by surprise. 

"How the fuck did we get to this point already?" he thinks, only just noticing that his pants and briefs are around his ankles and that Eames has somehow moved Arthur's legs further apart without him even noticing. He looks down and sees a brightly colored, single-use tube of lube resting on top of Eames's bag, a sort of astoundingly prescient concession to his unspoken fear that even the cleanest floors are covered with germs. 

Eames looks up, opening his eyes fully, his expression as questioning as one can possibly be with a mouth full of cock. Arthur offers him a hazy smile and tiny nod, before leaning back and surrendering once again to the experience. He doesn't quite space out though, as now he can feel first one and then two of Eames's fingers pushing in and out of his body, stretching him slowly and gently, in perfect contrast to the mercilessly hard and filthy sucking motions Eames's throat is performing. 

As Arthur's body adjusts to the intrusion, he realizes that he's got to decide--pretty much _now_ \--if he's going to come this way, or while getting fucked. Merely thinking of it is almost enough to drive Arthur over the edge. Ordinarily he would pull his partner off and try his best at coming in close succession of each other while fucking, because he he doesn't like having to wait too long for his partner, just in case things get too dry or he's over sensitized to the point of discomfort. But the heat between them is so overpowering that Arthur trusts Eames to make it good, no matter how it all plays out. And anyway, the blow job is just too damn amazing to let it end it incomplete. 

Minutes later, he's panting and writhing against the wall, Eames doing nothing to restrain Arthur's movements. 

"Ethan," he whispers, barely capable of putting words together. "Ethan please ... I ... I ... "

At that, Eames pushes the thumb of his free hand into the joint of Arthur's leg and torso, just below his hipbone and sucks him down hard and deeper than ever. As Arthur tips over into coming, he feels Eames's fingers stroking him _just right_ inside, and lets loose a filthy, gutteral groan so utterly unlike himself that he can feel a blush rising on his chest, even as he comes down from the aftershocks. 

His legs are shaky as hell from pushing his feet into the floor, straining to maximize every ounce of pleasure at the end. He slides partway down the wall, but Eames presses him back, keeping Arthur upright and then very slowly rising to stand. Once on his feet, he nuzzles against Arthur's neck, kisses his ear and his brow.

"You're bloody gorgeous, Arthur," Eames says, voice hushed and almost reverent. 

"Mr. Eames, please take me to my bed and fuck me," Arthur whispers back. 

Eames responds with a sound that's something between a groan and a growl. 

Even though the apartment is ridiculously small, Arthur bends to pull up his pants before crossing the room and shedding them again, along with his socks, shoes and the coat he's still wearing. He turns to Eames, who is tucking his jacket and bag into the corner behind the bookshelf. Wearing nothing but his button down, Arthur runs his hands across Eames's broad shoulders and says, "you not nearly naked enough," before lunging forward for another kiss.

Just a handfull of minutes later they are rolling around on the bed, Arthur pulling item after item of clothing off of Eames's body, which, by the way, is fucking unbelievable. 

"Jesus Christ, look at you," he says straddling Eames's torso. 

"I was thinking fairly close to the same thing," Eames responds as he reaches up to undo the buttons on Arthur's shirt. "Is this how you want it then?" he asks, rolling his hips ever so slightly to punctuate the question. 

Arthur shakes his head and flips them over so Eames is pressing him down into the mattress. Tonight is all about surrendering control, even if he just had to take some in order to continue the trend. Eames shimmies down the bed and slides a finger back into Arthur, who gasps in response, even though he was expecting it. 

"Where on earth did you get that lube earlier, by the way?" he asks.

Eames smirks. 

"I had some slick in my coat pocket, just in case. But do you have any more close to hand?"

Before Arthur knows it, Eames is scissoring three fingers inside him. Judging by his ragged breathing, Eames must be beyond eager to progress, but he's so patient, making certain that Arthur is well beyond ready. Just before he starts to push in, Eames looks down at Arthur and asks, "think we can get you up for another round?" 

But there's no time to answer, because Eames is pulling Arthur's legs up around his waist and thrusting inside, and Arthur is arching back against the sheets, overcome. Eames rolls and circles his hips slowly, but firmly, searching Arthur's reactions to every movement. It's obvious when he finds an angle that works for both of them: Arthur gasps, his hands fly to grip Eames's shoulders; Eames closes his eyes and breathes deeply, face a mask of concentration. 

When Eames starts moving again, it's with such a methodical rhythm and easygoing pace, Arthur can hardly believe his control. Before long they're rocking back and forth together. Arthur is biting Eames's shoulder, on the verge of having it be too much. Eames is panting into Arthur's skin, sweat appearing at his temples and along his collar bone. It's slower and less urgent than Arthur expected, especially after the boldness of Eames's blowjob technique. But he's clearly committed to getting Arthur hard again before coming. It might happen, and even if it doesn't this fuck is good enough that Arthur won't care. 

Back when he was 19, Arthur would sometimes fuck Robert, flip over and be able to come again before Robert was done fucking him in turn. Of course, neither of them had anything close to control back then, so it still probably works out in his 32-year-old body's favor. 

Eames is exhaling a string of nonsense curse words, some of which sound suspiciously like Latin, interspersed with Arthur's name. Arthur's dick is definitely starting to take an interest again and everything is progressing swimmingly, as long as Ethan can hold out just a little longer. 

"Bugger!" 

Suddenly Eames is pulling out, leaving Arthur empty and immediately bereft. He actually pouts, which is an expression Arthur thought he'd eliminated from his repertoire when he turned 25. 

Eames doesn't seem to notice though. He grabs Arthur's hips roughly and flips him over, then pulls on his ankles to drag him to the edge of the bed. Arthur expects to feel the press of Eames's cock thrusting into him again, and gasps loudly when he feels the softness of a tongue licking between his parted cheeks instead. 

"Ethan," he pants. "You don't have to ... It's OK ... "

"Arthur, please shut up," Eames response and dives right back in. 

It's only a matter of minutes before Arthur is hard as a rock and grinding into the sheets as Eames completely takes him apart all over again with his tongue. He's shivering and whimpering, his face pressed into his forearm, entirely too close to losing control already from the velvety smooth feeling of Eames licking into his body.

"Ethan, Ethan wait," he manages to say between pants.

Eames pauses just long enough for Arthur to say, "I want to come from you fucking me ... please. I want to feel you ... your cock, please."

Arthur firmly believes that whatever he may lack in the noisy sex sounds department, he more than makes up for in asking for exactly what he wants in bed.

The words have barely left his mouth before Eames is shoving his dick back inside Arthur, roughly this time. He grabs Arthur's hips and pulls them up into the air, thrusting mercilessly against Arthur's prostate over and over, until it's all Arthur can do to keep breathing. As for Eames, he seems to have abandoned his multi-lingual cursing and name calling in favor of a series of wild-sounding grunts and groans. 

He sounds so close to the edge and all Arthur wants in the world at the moment is to follow him over it. He balances on one forearm and manages to snake a hand under his body to grab his cock. 

"Oh God, Ethan ... feels so good, so fucking good," he manages to choke out. 

Eames responds by clumsily moving one hand from Arthur's hip bone to help. It's hardly the controlled move of earlier in the encounter, but it's enough. Arthur comes all over their entwined fingers and the comforter underneath, which Eames unthinkingly pushes him down into as he thrusts hard twice more before collapsing on top of Arthur, panting in his ear. 

They lie there, breathing heavily, coming back to earth for a few minutes, before Eames rolls off and apologizes. 

"Fuck. Please believe me that I didn't do that intentionally. Can I get you a flannel or something?" 

Arthur directs him to the bottommost of the built-in drawers and peels himself from the sticky mess that's now spread all over his chest. It really doesn't matter. He feels amazing--loose and limber and just full of endorphins. 

When Eames returns with the wet washcloth, Arthur pulls him in for a gentle kiss before wiping himself down. 

"It probably doesn't need saying, but that was fucking fantastic," he says. 

Eames grins.

"I don't know maybe it does, just in case."

Arthur huffs a tiny laugh.

"And for the record, I agree," Eames responds, giving Arthur a tiny slap on the ass as he bends over to wipe off the duvet cover. "I'm bloody famished. We really ought to have brought the rest of our meal back with us. Good judgement always is frightfully clouded by lust." 

Secretly, Arthur is thrilled that Eames apparently wants to stay and hang out. He doesn't know how much of that feeling is acceptable to convey on a first date though, so he just responds: "I'm sure I've got something that we can eat. Just give me a sec."

He ends up making plain cheddar omlettes and serving them with leftover spinach-bacon salad. They eat on Arthur's sofa, because he doesn't have room for a proper table, Eames semi-sprawled across the couch in his dress shirt and boxers, Arthur cross-legged in clean sweats and a tee shirt. It feels almost like they're a couple, the way they alternate comfortably between silent eating and teasing exchanges about egg-cooking techniques and who managed to work up more of an appetite since dinner. 

After they're done, Arthur leans against Eames's leg and says, "you're more than welcome to stay--no, I'd very much like it if you'd stay, but since it's a school night, I should probably turn in pretty soon, especially since I skipped out on office hours yesterday and didn't get any work done in the morning, either." 

Eames looks hesitant, and Arthur's heart drops into his toes. Fuck! He's messed everything up by sounding too eager, or possessive, or something. He desperately wishes he could take back the words and rushes to try to set things right. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to overstep, or make this into something more than it is. For the record: If it's not obvious, I'd definitely like to see you again. But if it's too early for the spend-the-night phase, then I completely undertand. It's late and I didn't want to kick you out into the cold, just because I have to go to sleep soon." 

Eames smiles. 

"Arthur, relax. I'm not as skittish as all that. I would like to stay, but I was debating, because I'm leaving town tomorrow and I still haven't packed. I'm a terrible procrastinator, I know. But I was having a little bit of trouble concentrating this afternoon ..." 

Arthur offers a sheepish smile in response to this information. 

"Well, like I said, I have to get up early, so if that helps make up your mind ... "

"Fuck it, yeah, I'll stay. Who wants to go back out into this horrid weather unnecessarily? And I'd probably not be terribly productive yet tonight anyway."

It's sort of weird, getting ready for bed with Eames like they're an established couple, one that lives together or is at least accustomed to having sleepovers not immediately following exhausting, marathon sex. 

Unlike Ariadne, the first time she'd crashed on his couch in Missouri after a night of too much wine drinking, Eames doesn't raise an eyebrow or comment about the fact that Arthur has an extra toothbrush on hand. (He generally prefers not to bring people back to his place, but he likes to be prepared, just in case.) And he doesn't mock Arthur's complicated (not to mention too expensive for his meager income) face-washing and moisturizing regimen, as at least one former hookup had done when Arthur had insisted on getting up to wash his face in the middle of the night, hours after succumbing to post-coital exhaustion. 

He does, however, wink at Arthur while he's got a mouth full of toothpaste foam and squeeze Arthur's ass when he bends over to dry his face on a towel. 

Arthur wonders if Eames wants to fool around again before going to sleep. He wonders if he's even capable at this point. He decides to just act casual and follow Eames's lead. 

"Do you want a tee shirt, or something?" he asks when they go back to the main room. 

Eames shakes his head, "I'm quite all right, thanks," and removes his button down before slipping under the covers. 

Arthur feels overdressed in comparison, so he pulls his own tee over his head and, uncharacteristically, drops it on the floor. 

Once they're nestled under the covers, Arthur is overcome with uncertainty. 

"Are we going to cuddle? Should I start a conversation? What the fuck have I done? Everything was going so well, and now it's wall-to-wall awkwardness" he thinks.

Eames rolls up on one elbow, looking down at Arthur.

"So this is a bit unusual, isn't it?" he says, and it isn't really a question.

Arthur winces."It does feel a bit ... odd, I'll admit. I'm not exactly used to having people spend the night like this, as if we were a couple and not just too exhausted to get out of bed."

Eames laughs.

"Well I shall choose to feel special then." 

Arthur laughs in turn. Eames seems to have a talent for putting awkward situations at ease.

"Tell me," he asks, lowering his head to the pillow, but still facing Arthur. "Have you ever lived with someone, you know, romantically?"

"Yeah," Arthur responds, voice almost a whisper. It's not like his relationship with Robert is a secret--it would be weird at his age if he didn't have a serious relationship under his belt--but he's not accustomed to talking about him with people he's just had sex with, or ever had sex with for that matter. "Just for a year before I went to graduate school. We eventually split over the distance. But it was kind of perfect for a while."

Eames smiles wistfully. For someone so secretive about certain aspects of his life--like his fucking last name and whatever that weirdness with Yusuf was earlier--he's unguarded in so many ways that Arthur is himself reticent. 

"What about you?" he asks.

"Not properly no. It was one of those situations where I had my own _drawer_ and my own _toothbrush_ and even my own _key_ to the flat, but I wasn't allowed on the lease or stop maintaining my own residence. At the time, it was more of a a minor irritant than a serious problem, but in retrospect, I think it was an important clue." 

He looks a bit sad and Arthur, in spite of his long-trained habit of remaining emotionally distant, reaches out and squeezes Eames's hand. Eames smiles and then shrugs. 

"Oh well, all for the best, right?"

"So where are you going on your trip? Or is that another _Eames_ secret?"

"Home. My cousin's getting married Saturday next. I'm spending a week visiting before, rather than after, because I'll probably hate my entire family after spending 24 drunken, stressful, repressed hours with them. This way, by the time we come round to that, I'll be on my way back here."

Arthur laughs and inches his face closer to Eames's pillow. He has to restrain himself from saying something goofy like "this is fun" or "I like this." Eames must know how Arthur feels though, because he also moves closer and his eyes crinkle in a sleepy, unguarded smile. In spite of his exhaustion and the fact that he has nothing left in the tank for sex, Arthur can't help surging forward and kissing Eames, who responds instantly with the same easy sensuality that has colored his every movement since their first kiss--and before it too, honestly. 

The man could be a porn star. Every single thing he does makes Arthur think of fucking, even just spearing spinach with a fork or laughing at a joke ... or kissing like he was made to do nothing else on earth but this. Of course, the porn star image has hardly formed in his mind, but Arthur knows he would already be way too jealous to watch Eames fuck anyone else. It's sort of terrifying, so he chooses not to think about it too hard.

Instead he runs his hand up and down Eames's muscled chest, enjoying the heat of the other man's skin as it seeps into his fingertips. Eames releases a tiny whimper and it's enough to compel Arthur to roll them both over, so he's pressing Eames down into the mattress. He kisses Eames with everything he's got, eager to demonstrate that he can match Eames's skills, even if this isn't perhaps the best time to try, all things considered. 

Nevertheless, before too long Eames is panting between kisses and moves his hand from stroking Arthur's back, to reach between their bodies. Arthur stops him. 

"No Eames, I can't, just let me ... please." 

Arthur kisses him some more, but now he's worried what Eames thinks of his refusal and whether it somehow reflects poorly back on him.

"It's just, I'm 32 not 19, and three times in one day is probably my limit without things getting painful, not to mention taking forever. But that doesn't mean I can't get you off."

Great. Now he's gone and made everything awkward again with the kind of babbling that Arthur usually never allows himself to do, preferring to be thought cold or demanding to needy. This whole boyfriend-seeking thing is much more draining than his usual encounters, because he doesn't often give a fuck what they think of him as a person when it's all said and done, as long as they still respect him professionally.

Eames cocks an eyebrow and smirks.

"Three times, huh?"

Arthur shrugs.

"I had to take care of things before I left my office, or I would have ended up on my knees in the museum's handicapped bathroom within minutes of arriving."

Eames lets out a small moan. 

"Tell me more," he says.

"How about I show you?"

Arthur inches halfway down Eames's torso and then pauses, looking up through his eyelashes.

"Or do you want to go stand on the tiles in my tiny bathroom, make the fantasy more authentic?"

Although it's intended as a joke, Arthur sees a flash of curiosity in Eames's eyes. He surprises himself by hauling them both out of bed and shoving Eames up against the only unoccupied wall of his train-toilet-sized bathroom before shutting the door and dropping to his knees. He yanks Eames's underpants down as he goes, and then gets right to business. After all, if they're pretending to be in a public restroom, then he's got to make this as hard and fast as he possibly can. 

It's not his usual style. Funny enough, although Arthur likes it no nonsense when he's on the receiving end, he prefers to be languid, slow and teasing when he's on the giving end--just another 10-year-old leftover from his previous relationship.

Arthur isn't much into role playing. It's not generally the kind of thing one does with someone he might not ever have sex with again, since a one-night-stand, even between colleagues, is kind of an exercise in pretending to be someone you're not anyway. But in this case, he knows they'll both be thinking about the "what if" scenario he'd just raised anyway, so it seems like a fun idea to play along together rather than separately. And anyway, it's not like they're pretending to be different _people_. They're just sort of imagining themselves in a different place. 

Although Arthur isn't taking the time to really explore Eames's dick the way he'd like to, since he's barely letting it slip out of his mouth at all, he can tell that it's got a nice shape and slides down his throat with just the slightest discomfort--enough to remind Arthur of it's size when when fucking him, but not so much that he's aching for it to be over. 

He's a little worried about how quiet Eames is being though, considering what a moaner and dirty talker he'd been just a few hours earlier. But then Eames fumbles to turn on the lightswitch and Arthur pauses, mouth full, to look up at him and make sure everything is OK. What he sees makes Arthur's breath catch in his throat--well as much as it can considering that Eames's cock is halfway down it at the moment. Eames is biting his fist in an attempt to keep noises from escaping his mouth, obviously taking their game to the next level. 

Arthur pulls off and whispers, "you're doing so well, staying quiet for me." His voice is scratchy and rough in that way that only comes from sucking cock or the aftermath of a terrible cold. He can feel the shiver that it sends running up Eames's body as he opens up and takes him back in. He digs his fingers into Eames's thighs, holding him still against the wall as he works his tongue and his throat in concert, imagining how this feels for Eames. 

Arthur knows he doesn't have Eames's oral skills. But he's not worried, because after all not many people have a mouth like that, just made for cocksucking, and besides Arthur's never had any complaints ... well not since he was 17 anyway and that's a memory best left in the recesses of his mind. 

Where Arthur thinks he really excels is with his hands. He has long pianists fingers and if his partner will let him, Arthur knows he can take the guy apart almost completely just from fingering. And he likes doing it, too. It's easier to watch reactions than it is with a blow job and there's just something exciting to Arthur about feeling someone so intimately, with no thought to his own pleasure. 

Unfortunately, a lot of the guys Arthur hooks up with who are into bottoming pretty much just want to get to fucking as soon as they're able. Well perhaps unfortunately is the wrong word, because obviously Arthur loves to fuck. But when he's in the mood to just be giving, it's harder than one might expect to steer activities in a just-let-me-finger-you-until-you-come direction. 

Maybe he can change that next time with Eames. He really hopes so. But for now, he puts everything he has into making Eames feel good this way. 

He moves one hand up to join the rhythm set by his bobbing head, fingers just tight enough to build additional friction. Eames responds instantaneously with a groan that can't be muffled, even by his fist. 

"It's always the hands," Arthur thinks, pleased that he's done such a good job of predicting his success here. 

Part of him wants to scold Eames for making too much noise. But the part that wants to drive Eames over the edge of desire wins out over that initial instinct. 

He works a twist of his wrist into the the coordinated efforts of his fingers, lips and tongue--drawing another loud whine out of Eames--and keeps repeating the movement until he feels the other man's hand gently touching his hair in warning. At this, Arthur stills his hand and swallows Eames as deep into his throat as he can handle to provide maximum suction. 

Seconds later he's got a mouthful of warm come swirling around his tonsils until Eames pulls out far enough that he can gulp it down. He rests his head momentarily on Eames's thigh before allowing the other man to give him a hand up. 

"You sure I can't return the favor, Arthur?" Eames asks, eyeing Arthur's half-hard cock, poking out of his sweats.

Arthur kisses his cheek.

"I appreciate the offer, but I promise it's not worth your time ... or mine. C'mon let's go to bed. I swear, I'm going to fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow."

Eames chuckles, and lets Arthur pull him through the door and push him down onto the mattress. The last thing Arthur remembers, is Eames's fingers gently stroking his side as he drifts off into sleep.


	3. You and Me, Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur and Eames get closer and have a fair amount of sex.

Arthur thinks about Eames's hands and mouth and cock throughout the morning's class discussion. 

Then he thinks about Eames's arms and chest and abs during his lunch meeting, when the dean of the history department asks Arthur to fill in for a professor with a sick mother-in-law and represent them at a conference in Washington the following weekend. 

He reserves Eames's ass for the long stretch of afternoon office hours, which may have been a mistake, because he can't close the door and take matters into his own hands, so to speak. It's not until after 4:00 that he realizes he's completely forgotten to do any post-date Google stalking. Perhaps it really was paradigm-shifting sex. 

It turns out that Ethan Eames has a very, _very_ impressive academic pedigree. Arthur is the tiniest bit embarrassed to have bragged about his own accomplishments the night before when Eames went to more impressive schools and has the same number of publications under his belt as Arthur does, in spite of having bailed on academia three years prior. 

Not that Arthur is disappointed. Evidence that Eames is intelligent beyond Arthur's own perception of him only makes Eames sexier. It's probably fucked up that Arthur feels that way, but it's the truth. 

He'd liked Eames an awful lot when he was just a really hot, smart guy Arthur had met in a restaurant. He'd liked him even more when he found out Eames was bright and driven enough to be on Arthur's same path in life, give or take. Now that he knows Eames is _this close_ to a doctorate in art history from one of the world's most prestigious institutions, well, Arthur might have to upgrade him to "dream guy" status.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Arthur pulls out his phone to text Eames. Since he'd come clean about his online snooping habits the night before, there's no point in pretending he didn't look Eames up today, and the sooner he says something about it, the better.

"Mr. Eames, I am impressed." 

He assumes Eames will either know what he means immediately, or figure out pretty quickly without prompting. 

Several hours later when Arthur is home eating yogurt and watching a repeat of the previous night's episode of _The Daily Show_ , he receives a reply. 

"Unfortunately, darling, I don't think the Kennel Club accepts 'almost' as a pedigree," it says and there's a picture of Eames with his arm around an absolutely beautiful greyhound. 

They text a few more times over the course of the week. Arthur doesn't want to bother Eames on vacation. But he doesn't want to be forgotten entirely, either. 

Arthur goes to the Belgian place and sends Eames a picture of his lunch, hoping that the subtext that he's wishing Eames were there with him is clear enough without actually having to spell it out. Eames responds with a picture of a pink china plate covered with finger sandwiches. ("Cousin thinks the fact that I like to shag blokes means I'm actually female. Forced to attend bridesmaid luncheon, miss stag night.") A few days later Eames a picture of himself in a green leather chair in what looks like a library ("Ah, the life of a gentleman at leisure.") Arthur sends a picture of a poorly graded essay covered in his own red ink, the student's name carefully cropped out of frame.

Friday afternoon Arthur cancels office hours and takes the train down to Washington. He arrives just in time for the welcome cocktail hour and only then realizes that he has no plans to pick anyone up that night. It's very nearly a first for him and he feels a bit shaken about it. Normally he would have at least tried to figure out who else might be attending, to get a sense of the field. 

"Maybe I should pull someone, just to keep my hand in the game," he thinks. "After all, just because I'd like Eames to be my boyfriend, doesn't mean that he actually is." 

As if sensing Arthur's wavering, Jack Nash comes bounding up with two drinks in his hand. 

"Arthur, I didn't know you were coming. My weekend just got better." 

"Jack," Arthur replies, somewhat wary, but still accepting the drink and a one-shouldered hug. 

Nash is smart and a pretty good fuck (strictly bottom), but he'd always been a little clingy for Arthur's taste, especially on the occasions when Arthur had had his eye on someone else and Nash had purposefully kept getting in the way before stepping aside the last possible second. He'd seemed to think it was funny. 

"And miss the chance to have you cockblock me as usual?" Arthur chides. "Actually, I'm just filling in. Someone else was supposed to attend, but his mother-in-law is in the hospital."

"How's the big city?"

"Letting me know every day how limited the financial rewards of a life in academia truly are. How's Oklahoma?"

"Boring as shit. The usual." 

Arthur makes small talk with Nash and other colleagues as he winds his way around the room greeting people and sampling hors d'oeuvres. But he's only paying the barest minimum of attention to the conversations at hand. His mind is racing, wondering if Eames has a date to this wedding he's attending. 

He imagines Eames in a well-tailored suit, leading some family friend and college fuckbuddy to their table, his hand on the small of the other man's back. He imagines them dancing, warding off questions about whether they're back together with good-natured laughter. He imagines them having one too many and deciding to take each other to bed for old time's sake. 

Then, even worse, he imagines it all over again with a woman--someone Eames slept with in high school, desperately trying to convince himself that he was straight.

Arthur can't decide what to do about this runaway imagination problem. Should he sleep with someone at the conference, just so he doesn't feel like Eames has the upper hand when they see each other again? Or should he refuse to start out this not-yet-a-relationship by acting suspicious and engaging in one-upsmanship?

"Would it be so horrible if Eames fucked someone and I didn't? If I even found out about it, that is. It's not like he's going to start a long-distance relationship with some guy in England while he's away for the week," Arthur tells himself. " _And_ it's not like we're kids, still measuring our worth and our masculinity by our number of conquests. I've slept with a lot of people. I'm quite sure Eames has slept with a lot of people. One more or less shouldn't matter at this point. On the other hand, one more or less shouldn't matter at this point ... "

In the end, he thinks of something his grandfather used to say, "dress for the job you want, not the job you have." 

It's never applied much in Arthur's life, because professors are notoriously bad at fashion and he's never had the money for the kind of wardrobe he'd like to own anyway. But it's oddly applicable in this situation. Eames isn't Arthur's boyfriend. But Arthur wants him to be. So he's going to hold himself to that standard now--see what it's like and know he'll have nothing to hide when they next get together.

Of course, academic conferences where he's neither trying to discretely get as much ass as possible, nor hunt for a job, turn out to be kind of boring. Arthur sits on a panel, as promised, Saturday morning but then skips out in the afternoon and walks down the Mall to the Natural History museum. It's mobbed, of course, so he doesn't last long before darting over to the Hirshhorn for a quick walk around the exhibits. He takes a picture of himself with the Washington Monument in the background and texts it to Eames, who is likely in full-on wedding mode, probably dancing with the bride or making a toast or tearing up at a touching moment. 

Eames seems like the type of guy who would be the life of a wedding. Arthur tends to get a little too retrospective about his own relationship failures and maybe a touch bitter about his own legal inaccessibility to this sort of commitment and spends far too much time trying to hide his inappropriate emotions. 

Nobody seems to have missed Arthur when he gets back to the hotel.

Nash sits next to Arthur at dinner, which is fine. They chat about a grant application that's giving Nash some trouble. They slyly roll their eyes at the keynote speaker's terrible jokes. Afterward, during cocktails, Nash asks Arthur if he has his eye on any "young talent" at the conference. Arthur knows that beyond wondering who, if anyone, Arthur is trying to pull, Nash is feeling out whether he can ask Arthur up to his room for a drink. 

The moment of truth. 

"Actually, I'm sort of seeing someone, so I'm really just here to work. Really tough, I know--free food and booze on the university's dime for two days. But they asked me to attend, so ... What about you? Making any headway with anyone?" 

"I guess not," Nash replies, then shrugs. He's more gracious about it than Arthur had feared. 

Another drink and Arthur excuses himself to his room. He scans through the expensive channels on the television, the ones he can't afford to subscribe to at home, sees nothing worthwhile and gets out his laptop, with the idea of finding some porn. Just then his phone pings a new message and it's a picture of Eames, in a fucking tuxedo. He looks _mouthwatering_. The laptop is no longer necessary. 

Arthur palms himself through his trousers, imagining peeling layer after layer of dove grey wool and crisp white cotton off of Eames's body, running his hands everywhere. Or no, better yet leave the shirt on and maybe the vest, too, and just throw Eames face down on the bed. Or no, maybe just open the fly and suck him off behind a garden shed during the reception, then spend the rest of the night hoping no one notices his own dirty knees. 

Arthur opens his fly, pulling himself out and not even bothering with lotion, just spitting on his palm and working his cock while looking at the picture of Eames. 

God he is so hot, it's unbelievable. And he's a great fuck. Arthur is dying to return the favor. He imagines it in vivid detail, enhanced with all the information he now has about Eames's incredible body and the obscene noises he makes in bed.

If Arthur weren't alone, he would be embarrassed by quickly he comes. 

After getting cleaned up and into pajamas, Arthur feels sated and sleepy, content enough to send Eames a quick text, although he must be unconscious by now, even taking after-after party celebrations into account. He honestly hadn't expected to hear from him at all, given that Eames was at a family event and probably didn't have his phone turned on for most of the day. 

"You want to have lunch next week?"

Arthur dozes off with the TV on, mind drifting over plans for seeing Eames again soon, confident that he made the right call not to take anyone to bed this weekend. 

\---

Arthur is sitting across a low coffee table from Eames, waiting for their hastily ordered sandwiches to arrive. Eames is rubbing the tip of his shoe against Arthur's ankle, an action that would normally irritate him for spreading germs, but now he now enjoys without hesitation as their only point of contact.

They'd exchanged a quick one-shoulder hug and cheek kiss when Arthur arrived a few minutes earlier. As soon as he'd been close enough to smell Eames' woodsy cologne, Arthur had longed to kiss him full on the mouth, to press his face into Eames' neck, to feel Eames' stubble rub against his cheek (and hopefully to feel Eames harden slightly against his thigh in return). But none of that seemed appropriate for greeting a person he'd had sex with just once, even if it was the best fuck he'd had in 10 years, easily. 

But at least Eames seems to feel the same pull for more contact, as he continues to play footsie with Arthur while he talks about his trip, pausing to emphasize points with quick touches to Arthur's hands or wrists or forearms. The thrill of knowing Eames is also apparently barely containing his attraction is only small comfort at the moment, however, because all this fucking touching is making Arthur crazy. 

He knows he's making sex eyes at Eames as he nods along to a story about the wedding. His lids feel heavy with it, but he can't help himself. Eames is slightly flushed, his whole calf pressed up against Arthur's now. Arthur's toying with the idea of trying to sneak Eames off to the bathroom to exchange handjobs, or at least make out a little, but he's not quite sure how to broach the subject, without sounding inconsiderate to Eames' tale. 

Just then the waitress arrives with their plates. Arthur sees Eames' face fall the tiniest bit, as if he might have been having the same thoughts, and speaks up before he can talk himself out of it.

"Could we get these boxed up, actually?" he asks, trying to sound as casual as possible. 

He turns to Eames, whose mouth is parted in what could either be surprise or arousal, hopefully both.

"Would you like to see my office?" he asks, as soon as the waitress has retreated to the kitchen. 

"Fucking hell, yes, I very much would." 

When their boxes arrive back at the table, Arthur throws money down and rushes Eames out the door. The waitress gives him a knowing look, but he doesn't give one half of a fuck right now. He needs to get his hands on Eames as soon as humanly possible. Anyone who can look at Eames in those tight-fitting jeans and that fisherman's sweater (which only brings out the rugged charm of his stubble and tousseled hair) and not want to get him alone--ideally in a log cabin or on a whaling boat, but an office will do nicely--is clearly just not attracted to men. At all. 

Eames relates another story about his cousin and Arthur tries his hardest to pay attention. He doesn't want Eames to be just another piece of ass, half ignored when they're not actually in the heat of the moment. But Arthur's mind is far, far, too distracted right now to focus. And what little brainpower he does have is thinking about how to get Eames into his office without encountering anyone else from the department. 

He manages to hustle them up the back stairs and through his door without any interference. He makes sure to flip the sign on his door to read "in a meeting, please leave me a note." 

Once inside, he's suddenly frozen, almost panicky. He's never done anything remotely like this before at work. Eames eyes him expectantly, clearly eager to get started, but polite enough to wait until Arthur gives the go-ahead.

"Are you listening for something?" he whispers, head tilted appealingly to one side. 

"No, I just ..." He moves to close the blinds of his window, even though there aren't any buildings directly across from his. "I've just never done this before. At my office, I mean, so I feel a little nervous." 

It's a little more honest than Arthur would like, but Eames merely smiles and gently tugs on Arthur's ear with his right hand. 

"I find that almost impossible to believe. I'm not sure quite what graduate student offices are for, except shagging."

Arthur shrugs, going all-in on the honesty front. 

"My first year, I had to share an office with a guy who, I swear, never left. I think he was sleeping there. After that ... I didn't ever really want anyone to feel that level of welcome in my life ... "

Eames' mouth curls upward in a tiny smile. The subtext that he's welcome doesn't need to be stated outright, thank god. Arthur leans forward and kisses him. 

Seconds later, they've worked each other out of their pants and are thrusting into each other's spit-coated palms, making out like teenagers. Eames has nice hands with thick, strong fingers. He strokes with a twist of the wrist that sends sparks shooting up Arthur's spine. His cock is uncut with skin that's appealingly soft and smooth. Arthur likes the feel of it under his hand, especially when he circles his palm over the head, forcing Eames back out of the kiss and bite his lower lip to stay quiet. 

"Arthur," Eames whispers, barely more than an exhale. 

Just like that day at the museum, Arthur is struck by the desire that they were already an established couple, so that he could whisper into Eames' ear how gorgeous he is, how much drives Arthur wild with desire, how lucky Arthur feels right now that he gets to have this stolen moment. Arthur is almost dizzy with wanting.

"Oh ..." he breathes. "Oh, oh ... I, I ..."

Quickly before he can say something crazy, Arthur pulls back and pushes Eames down into his desk chair. He drops to the floor and wraps his mouth around Eames' beautiful dick, preventing himself from voicing anything he can't take back. 

He works his throat and brings his right hand up to grip the base, moving it in concert with his mouth when he pulls off a little for air. The other he presses into the crease between Eames's groin and thigh, eliciting a twitch of pleasure. Then he sucks harder, realizing that they can't take all day at this; someone could be outside waiting to speak with him right now. Arthur collects the wetness surrounding Eames' cock and uses it to start stroking himself. His balance is precarious, but his desire keeps him poised just this side of faceplanting into Eames' crotch. 

Just as his knees are starting to feel a little bit sore against the floor, he feels a gentle hand in his hair and seconds later, his mouth is flooded with come. He strokes himself harder, but Eames, still hazy with orgasm, whispers, "wait ... let me ... I want to ..." and Arthur stops and rests his head on Eames' knee, giving him a second to recover. 

Then Eames pulls him up and forward so they're kissing, Arthur straddling him on the chair. This isn't the sort of thing Arthur would usually allow. He's slender and lanky and doesn't like being treated like he's fragile or, god forbid, feminine. But Eames's hand is working him _just right_ and it's hard to remember why he doesn't like sitting in someone else's lap when it feels so good to be here on this particular one right now. 

As he feels his orgasm approaching, Arthur pushes against Eames' body, craving contact. And then he's coming, gasping against Eames' mouth, sucking the air out of it and into his own. After a few seconds he realizes that Eames has caught the mess in a handkerchief that he must have had squirreled away. 

"What are you a Boy Scout? You're always prepared." 

Eames laughs. 

"I don't want to miss an opportunity." 

Arthur gets up and sits on the desk between Eames' spread thighs while they both get cleaned up. 

"What are you doing at the weekend?" Eames asks, zipping his pants. 

"No plans." 

"Want to come 'round for dinner Saturday? I'll cook." 

"Yeah, sure. That would be great. Can I bring anything?"

"Just your _appetite_ ," Eames says suggestively 

Arthur rolls his eyes and knocks his knee against Eames'. 

They eat their sandwiches over Arthur's desk, the student chair pulled to the side so that they can sit closer to each other. Arthur talks about how dull the D.C. conference was, without specifically saying what made it less exciting than usual. 

Eames seems to pick up on it though, because he says, "well the real fun is in the evenings, isn't it? Not that I'd know. I only went to that sort of thing a few times when absolutely forced and I had a boyfriend most of the time anyway." 

"The guy who wouldn't let you move in?" Arthur asks without thinking, and is then horrified at his intrusion. 

But Eames just shrugs and says, "the very same. Worthwhile use of my time, no?"

Arthur wonders if Eames is still a bit heartbroken and if this is going to present a stumbling block for them. Well, he can be patient if he has to. Lord knows, he's not anywhere close to the poster child for getting over someone quickly. It took him at least six years, embarrassing as that is to admit, even just to himself. He'd spent more than one late night, slightly drunk on ridiculously cheap wine, looking through pictures and re-reading old emails, regretting that he didn't transfer to Delaware or even follow Robert to China, willing to give it all up for another shot at their relationship. God it was such a relief to finally have that phase behind him. 

"No matter. Water under the bridge, yeah? So, tell me, what do you expect in these upcoming office hours?"

"Oh god, who knows? Complaints about a grade when it's clear that the person hasn't done the reading? Begging for an extension on the next paper? Threatening to sue me? That really happened, you know. Last semester." 

"I'm tempted to say you're too good for this shit, Arthur, but I'm afraid it would come out wrong." 

"No, I appreciate it. As much as I'm not looking to change careers now that I'm finally almost where I wanted to be when I started this journey, sometimes it helps just have sympathy that I'm wasting this ridiculous education of mine on people who don't care." 

"You should write a book. Then you'd probably get a better class of students, if you can get some traction with it. At least a better T.A."

"I've thought about it, obviously, but I don't think I have the experience or pedigree at this point to get any real attention. Maybe in five years or so ... I don't know. I seriously just started this job back in the Fall. My whole focus right now should be getting tenure and then worrying about what I do with it after that." 

"But that just traps you in a life of teaching these kids forever ... Sorry, I promised myself I wouldn't be so ... I really don't want you to think I don't understand your choices and respect them. It's just bloody difficult to talk about these issues without my own experiences shining through. I'll try to keep my mouth well shut."

"No it's fine. I like hearing your perspective. It's interesting. I'd never be brave enough to do what you did, to walk away like that and try something new ... "

"I think most people would say foolish rather than brave, but I appreciate your saying so, regardless." 

They continue to chat until Arthur has to open the door for office hours. He gives Eames one last, lingering kiss and then walks him outside.

"Just so you know, I'm not in the closet at work," he says proffering the handshake that he'd give a professional colleague after a meeting. "I just don't want anyone to know I'm using my office to get off with hot British guys mere minutes before students are set to arrive." 

"No worries, I understand completely," Eames responds. "So long as I'm the hot British guy in this situation." 

It's the closest either of them has come to a statement of intent since Arthur confessed to wanting to be friends as well as lovers during their first date. 

\---

Friday afternoon as Arthur is catching up on some emails, he gets a text: "Drinking with some mates downtown. Come join?"

Arthur can't tell if its a group message, or just for him. He suspects the former, since he and Eames already have plans for the next evening. It's probably not a good idea to show up and potentially wear out his welcome. 

He actually wouldn't _mind_ seeing Eames two days in a row--a thought which should scare him, but doesn't. He's decided that he's going to just go with his instinct on this thing and not question how he feels or if it's too much, or too soon or whatever. Not that he's crazy enough to think that he's _in love_ with Eames after just two dates, a couple of random meetups and several dozen texts and emails. But he's not going to lie to himself about how often he thinks of Eames in the course of a day. It's exciting, feeling this kind of infatuation again for the first time since he was literally a teenager. 

Just as he's packing up to go home an hour later, Eames calls his cellphone. 

"Did you get my text?" 

He sounds a bit drunk.

"Yeah, I thought it was a group message."

"No, just you. Would you like to join us, meet my friends, have a few pints?"

Part of Arthur is screaming at him to decline, to say he already has plans for the night. Another part is melting at the sound of Eames' voice and doesn't want to wait another day to see him.

"You're not worried about getting sick of me?" he asks, trying to pretend like it's just teasing.

"Never. You're not worried about meeting my mates?"

"Maybe."

"If it helps, I'm not really calling because I want to introduce you around. I just want to see you and I happen to be out somewhere not terribly inconvenient for you and why not?"

"Sure, I'll come. Where are you?"

Arthur meets Eames and a half-dozen friends at a low-key spot for beers and wings in the Financial District. Eames is the perfect proto-boyfriend all night. He makes sure Arthur has met everyone and feels comfortable, then leaves him to make his own conversations without hovering. But he still meets Arthur's eyes every half hour or so, checking that he's having fun, making sure he doesn't look like he's having an awkward time. 

And he is comfortable. This is the opposite of the Yusuf situation. Eames' friends are the kind Arthur would make himself, or would have if he knew anyone in this city besides Dom and his work colleagues. He's also getting drunk. Really drunk. Luckily, so is everyone else, including Eames. 

And that's how he finds himself doing what he swore he never would, making out in the back of a cab as it rushes down the BQE, not even entirely sure that he and Eames had even told anyone they were leaving. Everything is kind of hazy. He remembers sneaking an illicit cigarette outside, fingers brushing as they passed it back and forth, then kissing, then being here in this cab. 

And now Eames is paying and rushing him up the stairs of an almost rowhouse-looking building and into an incredibly spacious apartment. Then they're toppled on a couch, grinding against each other for long minutes like they're virgins who don't know how to take it to the next level. Arthur wants to tear Eames' clothes off. But he's too drunk to make his mind up how to proceed. He could get off just humping Eames' leg on the couch. Everything just feels so fucking good and surreal, like time is skipping frames in a film.

Eames pulls away.

"I want you to fuck me," Eames whispers right in Arthur's ear. "I really, _really_ want that."

"Oh god, I do, too ... but I'm so drunk. I want to be able to take my time ... do it right."

He kisses Eames again, more than content just to rub up against each other, keep it simple, maybe progress to handjobs in a few minutes.

"Arrrrrrrrthur. Don't make me beg. I'm in a state that I actually might do."

Arthur is drunk enough to blurt out, "I don't know, begging sounds kind of fun." 

Eames laughs and rolls off the couch to start riffling through the drawers of his coffee table. 

"Please don't think I'm a fantastic tart for having slick in nearly every room of my house aside from the kitchen." 

"Believe me, I'm in no position to judge _anyone_ on that front ... although I've been thinking recently about getting out of the slut game." 

He cannot _believe_ he just said that. Luckily, Eames doesn't respond and remains busy on the hunt for lube. Arthur sits upright to clear his head for a bit before he lets anything even more damaging slip. 

"I thought you were always prepared, like an Eagle Scout," Arthur quips, desperate to change the subject. 

"Well I didn't plan to have you here until tomorrow. If I'd had another day, I would _certainly_ have had supplies at the ready. ... Ah, here we are ... hold on half a tick. " 

He turns around and tosses a small bottle onto a cushion and rushes out of the room. Arthur supposes he must be in search of a condom, meaning the lube is for personal use.

He's sitting there, starring dumbly at the bottle in his hands, imagining Eames getting himself off on this very couch, when a condom lands next to him and Eames leans over the backrest to nibble the top of Arthur's ear. 

"Get over here," Arthur practically growls, impossibly eager for more now that he's had a moment to think about it. 

Eames circles the arm of the couch and Arthur reaches out to hold him still so he's standing with his wasit lined up with Arthur's head. He rucks Eames' faded henley up and inelegantly rubs his face, now scratchy with five o'clock shadow, across Eames' well-muscled belly. He unzips Eames' fly while pressing soft kisses along the elastic of his black briefs, then pulls them down as well, allowing Eames' cock to spring free. He laps at the head, swirling his tongue around inside the foreskin, before using his lips to push it back. Eames groans. 

"Let's get these right off," Arthur says pushing Eames' plum cords down to his ankles and waiting for him to toe out of his shoes and step free of the layers of clothing before pulling Eames down to straddle his own lap, naked from the waist down. 

Everything starts to speed up again once Arthur has one finger wiggling inside Eames, learning his reactions, and two circled around his cock, just shifting ever so gently up and down the shaft. Eames feels _good_ \--not so tight that Arthur is afraid take it fast, but tight enough that Arthur knows he hasn't been fucked in a little while, which only increases the new possessive streak that seems to rise up in Arthur whenever he's around Eames. 

Arthur adds a second finger, maybe a little sooner than he ordinarily would, but Eames grinds down on it and pants in his ear. 

"Hurry, darling, I can take it. Want to feel you."

Oh Jesus, Arthur really is going to move too quickly if Eames keeps saying things like that. He moves one hand to circle around Eames' waist, pulling him forward so his cock is rubbing up against the cotton of Arthur's sweater as Eames rocks back and forth, maximizing his contact with Arthur's fingers. He curses in German when Arthur adds a third, much, much too soon. But when Arthur tries to switch back to two, he groans, "no, don't stop, fuck, fuuuuuck ... I want it." 

It's killing Arthur. He's barely aware of anything anymore--not the surrounding room, not the street sounds that are probably filtering through the window bars, not even the location of the condom Eames had fetched. He can only hear Eames' encouragements and the squelching of his fingers moving in and out of Eames' body. He can only feel the muscles of Eames' lower back under his hand as he rolls and pushes into Arthur's ministrations, and the hard poking of Eames' cock frotting up against his chest. 

He smacks Eames on the ass lightly. 

"Up." 

He stands to unbuckle, not even bothering to take his own pants off properly before pushing Eames gently to his knees on the cushions, Eames' hands automatically moving to grip the back of the couch for leverage. As Arthur fetches the condom from the cracks of the cushions, he leans over and bites one side of Eames' perfect ass, growling. 

"I don't even know what's gotten into me," he thinks. 

Or maybe he says it out loud, because Eames responds with some ridiculous innuendo about getting something into himself. 

A rushing sound fills Arthur's ears as he pushes in, slowly, slowly, slowly, giving Eames time to adjust after such a short stretching period. Of course, Eames either likes it a bit rough, or he's drunk enough not to feel the burn, because he arches back, hurrying Arthur's progress. 

It's all Arthur can do to stay focused enough to note Eames' reaction to every angle he can achieve from this position. Once he's found one that really seems to do the trick--and thank fucking God for that, because he's holding on by a hair's breadth here--he wastes no time in reaching his lube-coated hand around to fist Eames' cock. Eames feels really fucking good inside and the view of Arthur's dick disappearing into that gorgeously sculpted ass is on the verge of actually killing him. 

\---

Arthur wakes to a hazy dawn with an erection and a pounding headache. Eames is wrapped around him in bed like a monkey. He has no actual memory of anything after coming like a freight train buried to the hilt inside Eames' ass as Eames sucked his own come off of Arthur's fingers. He doesn't remember apparently getting completely naked or crawling into bed. Or snuggling. 

When Eames slept over at Arthur's place they'd stayed mostly on their own sides of the bed, except for an occasional brush of hands against each other's skin when they'd rolled over. He wonders whether this is the result of alcohol making Eames reveal his most natural tendencies, or making him behave unusually. 

He has to piss, but he doesn't know where the bathroom is and is far too hard and too nauseated to be able to stand at the toilet talking himself out of arousal, so he just squirms around a little until the pressure on his bladder is less imposing and tries to doze off again. 

His movements rouse Eames, who peppers his neck with tiny kisses. 

"Christ, I am so glad you came 'round," he mumbles, shifting his palm to grope Arthur's ass. 

Arthur arches into the touch and then groans, as the motion reminds him exactly how sick he feels right now.

"Me too ... but I kind of feel like I'm dying right now." 

"I hadn't pegged you for a lightweight last night."

"I'm not," he playfully smacks Eames' shoulder, which sends a new wave of nausea through his body. "At least not while I'm drinking, anyway. I can hold my own at night but the next morning is brutal. My hangovers are something fierce."

"Poor baby," Eames mocks.

But he also moves so his hand is gently stroking through Arthur's hair, soothing his aching head and lulling him back into sleep. 

___

Arthur wakes again to much brighter sunlight and an empty bed. He downs a glass of water he finds on the nightstand, pulls on his boxer briefs and undershirt from the floor and pads out of the bedroom. 

Since he can't remember the layout of the apartment, he pokes his head first into a study so jammed with filing cabinets and bookshelves (meticulously organized, by the look of them) that Arthur figures Eames must have records of every bit of research he ever did for his degree, maybe even going back to undergraduate work. Nearly every available wall space in both the hallway and the office is hung with framed prints, not surprising for a specialist in the history of illustration, Arthur supposes.

Then he peeks into the bathroom and smooths his hair down before continuing into the main living-and-dining area where they'd fucked the night before. Eames is sprawled on the other couch, reading one of Arthur's favorite books on the scientific method, twirling a pencil in his hand. 

"Good morning, sleeping beauty, he says, setting down the book and smiling openly. "I hope you don't mind my letting you have a lie in." 

"And I hope I'm not keeping you from anything," Arthur says, gesturing to the book. "I can get out of your hair if you need to work ..." 

"Nonsense," Eames interrupts. "Unless you really have something pressing to do, or just want your space, you should stay. No point in trekking all the way from here to Queens only to repeat it all in a few hours. Bloody pain in the arse that trip." 

"Sorry," Arthur apologizes, realizing that Eames speaks from the experience of having done it a couple of weeks prior.

"I didn't say it wasn't worth it," Eames replies, grin turning mischievous. "However, I must get to the farmer's market to pick up some shopping for tonight. Would you care to join? You're welcome to stay and relax for a bit if you'd rather."

"No I'll come along. Can you give me a sec to get dressed and presentable?"

"Of course. I promise it won't be a long walk. No need to linger in the cold any longer than necessary. I'm somewhat astonished that the market is up and running already, to be honest." 

Arthur pulls on his wool trousers from the previous day, but forgoes the button down, tugging his sweater on right over his undershirt. He'd give anything for some fresh clothes right now, but nothing of Eames' is likely to fit and it seems a bit awkward to ask, anyway. Eames does, however, insist on loaning Arthur a hat and scarf, fretting that he won't be warm enough in just his peacoat. 

Arthur gratefully accepts a cup of black coffee that Eames buys from the neighborhood bakery, but is still feeling too queasy for food as they wander the stalls of the market, Eames pausing for free samples and to haggle over wares. 

"Can I help you carry one of those?" Arthur asks, eventually, realizing that while he's been zoning out over the mountains of root vegetables and listening to an apparently cold-resistant street performer play his violin, Eames has apparently purchased two overstuffed canvas bags full of food. 

Eames swings one of the bags in Arthur's direction and then clasps Arthur's free hand hand with his own. It strikes Arthur that this is the most boyfriend-y thing he has done in years, maybe ever. Shopping for organic groceries at a Brooklyn farmer's market, holding hands with a ridiculously attractive man in a shearling coat, swaying ever so slightly along to fiddle music. Is someone from NPR going to burst out from behind a screen and grant him some kind of "you have achieved gay, academic Nirvana" award? 

On the way back, they stop in a little market, because Eames wants some ice cream for after dinner. They each pick a pint--Arthur lemon, Eames cardamom--which should go well together.

"How are you feeling?" Eames asks when they return and Arthur worries that he was too reserved on their walk. 

"Almost back to normal. Sorry. I've been a little spaced out."

"No worries. I'm used to quiet mornings anyway. You can take a shower while I get the marinade set up if you like." 

"God yes, I promise to be less brain dead once I'm cleaned up." 

"Towels are in the blue cupboard in there. Use any you'd like."

Eames snaps his dishtowel against Arthur's ass as he retreats to the bathroom.

He's feeling distinctly revived under the scalding water when he hears a knock on the bathroom door. 

"Yeah." 

Eames hovers in the doorway, body language uncharacteristically shy. 

"If you want something more comfortable to wear, I have these that are probably about your size," he says, holding up a pair of track pants.

"Yeah, OK, if you don't mind." 

"Cheers," he says, leaving them on the toilet lid and closing the door.

When Arthur reappears in the kitchen, Eames is wiping down the counters, apparently finished with is prep work for dinner. He looks up, still anxious. 

"Arthur ... I feel that I should tell you ... those trackies you're wearing belonged to an ex of mine. Well I bought them for him but he only wore them once and didn't take them with the rest of his stuff when we split. If that makes you uncomfortable, I completely understand. They've been laundered, of course."

"Eames, it's fine. I don't mind. Thank you. Seriously. I hate getting out of the shower and wearing old clothes." 

Arthur can't help wondering if this is the same live-in-non-live-in boyfriend who Eames occasionally still seems broken up over or not. Regardless, even with this jealousy streak that Eames seems to bring out in him, Arthur really doesn't mind. It would be one thing if the pants were imbued with special memories. But considering they were only worn once and left behind, he supposed that's unlikely. 

"Soooooo ... does this mean that you ... gave up your degree ... for love?"

Eames looks a bit shocked, but he smiles.

"Well you certainly are awake now, aren't you?"

"Sorry. You don't have to tell me." 

"It's a bit more complicated than that, honestly. I ... I moved to New York for what I thought at the time was love, but I walked away from the degree for other reasons, many of which I've already explained in a roundabout sort of way. I ... I had a rough semester that threw my entire future career into doubt for a minute and I never quite recovered, emotionally speaking. I became very disillusioned after an experience with a student ..."

Arthur remains very still, trying not to react to that comment, afraid of what Eames means by it.

"No! No nothing like that. I ... I accused a student of plagiarism. She fought it. It turned into this whole drawn-out battle with the university. And although I was more-or less vindicated--she confessed and was put on probation, but not booted as she should have been, because her family were major donors--I just felt wrung out and completely disinterested in pursuing my doctorate. I was still compelled to the research, of course, but the idea of becoming an actual professor just utterly lost its appeal. I stayed for the following semester, determined to show her I hadn't been broken. But by summer, I was so disparaged that my advisor suggested I take a break, go on leave and get my head together."

"I'm so sorry, Eames. I can only imagine. I told you I'd been threatened with a lawsuit last semester and it was such a disgusting experience. But the student never actually pursued it in any serious way. I can completely understand how you'd want to give up after that kind of battle." 

"I'd been dating Dennis for three years at that point, from the summer before he started business school and then about nine months long distance. He'd been after me to spend part the summer with him in New York. He worked for a hedge fund. Still does. But when I got here, everything went pear shaped startlingly quickly. ... I knew he'd changed a little since he started making proper money. He'd come from nothing and perhaps it all went to his head a bit. ... I'd never been thrilled with the ethics and culture of his profession. But I come from a well-to-do background myself--I'm not supposed to say it, but it's true--and I've long been accustomed to that sense of distaste about my father and brother's work. So I thought I could just set it aside, maybe even use it to bring me closer to my own family, in a strange manner. And I probably could have done, if he'd just let me be the person I'd always been when we were together in Boston. ... But suddenly I was too free spirited, too much like an impoverished hipster, an embarrassment. I ... I understand it was hard for him. It's terribly difficult being openly gay in that alpha male, big swinging dicks, 'Liar's Poker' kind of world. And he thought someone well-bred and artistic would be able to fit in with the wives and girlfriends and soften the blow, ease his way into the club. He was very brave to be out in that world. I still think so, despite everything. But ... my career plans were in shambles, and I just couldn't revert to the good boy I'd been raised to be, not then. I couldn't stand that he was asking me to do it, even as I understood why. I could feel myself turning into my mother, or no, into my sister-in-law--a bored socialite type who has anxiety attacks over charity balls. I just ..." 

Arthur is stunned. It's so much information. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing. But somehow he blurts out: "So he begged you to come to New York and wouldn't let you live with him?"

And then: "Oh god, I'm so sorry. It's none of my business." 

"No that was in Boston. We were together for nearly two and a half years there, practically inseparable, known around campus. I'd raised the subject of moving in together after his first year, but he said it was impractical, because he'd be graduating and I'd have to move again to a smaller place. It was totally absurd, but I let it pass. Afterward, I wondered if he was already distancing himself from me." 

Arthur switches into commiserating gay friend mode, wanting Eames to be certain that Arthur's answer has nothing to do with him wanting continued access into Eames' pants. Anyway, if any conversation called for an unselfish, supportive voice, it would be this one. 

"I sincerely hope you don't need me to tell you, but that guy is obviously an asshole," he reaches out and squeezes Eames' forearm before dropping his hand to the counter and taking a deep breath. "You know, I spent years regretting that I didn't follow my foreign service-bound ex-boyfriend to Washington, or later to China. But stories like yours make me wonder how that kind of thing ever works out. Right or wrong, in our culture we have so much of our identities riding on our careers and how can you figure out a relationship if you don't have, or are discouraged from having, that kind of self-defining ability? If I'd changed my plans for Robert, I know I probably would have held it against him in every fight. But when I let him go, I spent years and years wondering if I'd made the right choice. I don't know how you ever be sure in that scenario."

It's more honest about his feelings than Arthur has _ever_ been with someone he's had sex with in his adult, post-Robert life. But he _has_ to share something in return after Eames' big confession. And, honestly, it does make him wonder if he and Robert wouldn't have run into the exact same array of problems as Eames and this Dennis did if they'd stayed together. Arthur isn't nearly as free-sprited, bo-ho as Eames, but he wouldn't want to be pressed into the doting, dependent wife-y role of an aspiring diplomat, either, and someone in Robert's position would have eventually needed a social coordinator. The rare pictures he sees of him these days are all embassy parties and economic summits.

"Do you still wonder about it?"

"Oh god no. I'm just glad to be over it, finally. Right or wrong--and I suspect there isn't just one answer--I made my choice and I have no regrets these days." 

They stand quietly contemplating each other for a moment before Arthur asks, "do you?"

"Fucking hell no! All I wonder about is if there was every anything good there, or if I'd been a fool to a social climber the whole time. But I don't regret moving here. I'm happy enough with my life. I'm figuring it out."

"It's funny," Arthur responds, trying to generalize the conversation. "When I was in college, I was so sure that I'd have everything under control by 32. It seemed ancient. But I hardly feel any older than I did at 25. I'm only just starting to think about life beyond my student and postdoc existence of the past 11 years. I still feel like a total naif in so many ways." 

"At least you have a proper bloody job! I'm existing on table scraps and a very charitable visa extension." 

Arthur looks pointedly around the spacious living area, trying to treat real estate questions as casually as most New Yorkers he's encountered.

"Table scraps?"

Eames shrugs. 

"As I said, I've family money. And it's much less expensive than you'd think, living all the way out here on the edges of urban civilization." 

"I think the commute would drive me crazy within a month." 

"Are you hungry, Arthur?" Eames suddenly asks. "I'm being a bad host, chatting your ear off when you haven't eaten a thing all morning."

"Yeah, I'm getting there," Arthur responds. "But I don't want to be a pain. You've already gone shopping and started cooking for tonight. Maybe just some toast or something?"

"Nonsense. I'll make us some sandwiches. I'm a bit peckish, myself."

He pulls a panini press off of a shelf and starts bustling around the cupboards finding ingredients. While, he's working, Arthur goes over to the couch and thumbs through the book Eames had been reading earlier. He's made some, frankly, fairly interesting margin notes on one chapter. Arthur tries to ask him about them, but Eames deflects, focusing on his preparations. 

"I suppose I wouldn't want to talk art history with him, either," Arthur thinks. "It probably sounds like I'm quizzing him." He lets it go.

After lunch, breakfast, whatever it is (grilled cheese sandwiches with refrigerator pickles and deli mustard), Eames smiles coyly and says, "I can't wait. I must taste that ice cream. I'm mad for cardamom. I spent a year living in Mombasa after university and I became absolutely addicted to the stuff."

He grabs the supplies and boosts himself up on the counter to dig into the carton. 

"Oh this is heaven!" 

Arthur's previously hung-over libido comes rushing back as he watches Eames lick ice cream off the spoon. Jesus that fucking mouth! It's too much. 

He steps forward, shouldering his way into the V of Eames' legs. 

"May I have a bite?"

"As many as you'd like." 

Eames feeds him a spoonful. It's delicious--really fucking good--but that's almost beside the point. Looking up at Eames through his lashes as he opens his mouth to release the spoon, a jolt passes between them. What was minutes ago casual and homey is suddenly charged with tension. 

Arthur pulls the carton away from Eames and fills the spoon. When Eames opens his mouth for a bite, Arthur pulls back, enticing Eames to slide down off the counter. He feeds him the spoonful and then leans in for a kiss. 

When he pulls away a minute or two later, Eames' ankle is wrapped around Arthur's calf and his fingers are sliding up under Arthur's shirt. 

Arthur has an idea. He smirks at Eames as he plunges the spoon back into the carton.

"I really don't want any more ice cream," Eames says. 

"Well I do," Arthur replies, pulling the spoon out empty and dragging its coldness across Eames' neck. Eames yelps, but before he can pull away Arthur leans forward and licks along the cold trail left behind. 

"Now aren't you clever," Eames gasps, squirming at the heat of Arthur's mouth after the cold spoon.

Arthur does it again on the other side. Then each wrist. Then he lifts Eames' shirt up over his head, and before Eames has even finished removing it, Arthur presses the cold spoon to one nipple. Eames lets out a tiny shriek, which segues into a moan as Arthur covers it with his mouth. He fakes Eames out three times, making him flinch each one, before finally giving the other side the same treatment. 

Eames grabs his shoulders and pulls him up into a kiss, pressing their bodies together so Arthur can feel how hard he is.

"I owe you," Arthur says, pulling away. 

"Nonsense," Eames replies.

"I want to take my time with you, give you what you deserve. Are you seriously going to complain about that?" Arthur asks, between kisses to Eames' neck. 

"No ... no I'm not," he pants in reply. 

Moments later he's got Eames nearly naked in bed, kissing him and running his hands all over his ridiculous body. He hooks his thumb under Eames' waistband, thinks better of it, and pulls away to take off his own shirt first. 

"So tell me," he asks. "Where do you have lube tucked away in this particular room. I only know where to find it in the living room." 

He's quite sure it's in the bedside table, but doesn't want to presume that he can just reach in there without asking. And it's a good thing he did, too, because Eames has a very fancy vibrator in there, which Arthur might feel uncomfortable seeing if he hadn't been invited to look. As it is, a thrill rushes through his body at the idea of using it on Eames--maybe while blowing him at the same time, feeling the vibrations fill his mouth, and eventually Eames' come, too. Yeah that will have to happen sometime. Since Eames must know Arthur saw it, he's going to consider it an invitation to play with it, but he has other plans in mind already, simpler ones. 

For now he just removes the lube and tosses it on the bed. Then he goes back to groping Eames' arms and chest, smoothing his hands along the planes of his abs, determined to memorize every inch of Eames' skin before doing the same thing to his insides. 

But before long he pulls away, not wanting to make Eames impatient so soon. He pulls off Eames' briefs and grabs the bottle of lube. 

"May I?" he asks, holding it up.

"I thought that's why we were in here, so you could fuck me senseless, slow and excruciating?"

"Oh I promise you it will be slow and excruciating, but I'm not sure if I'm actually going to fuck you or not," Arthur replies and the shiver it elicits from Eames is visible. 

"Tell me can you come from this?" he asks, as he scoots back and pushes Eames' feet flat on the bed, knees pointing toward the ceiling. "Because more than anything right now, that's what I want."

Eames's expression has turned dreamy. 

"Perhaps," he answers, short of breath. "It's happened once or twice. But I shouldn't count on it."

"Well let's see what we can do," Arthur replies as he slips the tip of a very lubed finger into Eames' asshole.

He takes his time exploring with just one finger, slowly rotating in ever widening circles as he pumps gently in and out. Arthur watches and catalogs every sound and movement, trying to repeat them several times in succession before adding something new. A twist makes his eyes go glassy. A curl makes him whimper. The sweat beading on Eames' brow and the flush spreading across his chest make Arthur want to find more ways to touch and tease.

He adds a second finger and scissors, making Eames say something in what sounds like Latin. Now a twist makes Eames moan and a curl makes him gasp and arch off the bed. He continues to play with Eames this way for a few minutes, then switches back down to one. Eames whines, but Arthur calms him by thrusting as deeply as he possibly can with his middle finger and tickling him from inside, as he presses his palm to Eames' belly. 

"Arthur ... " 

"I told you I was going to take my time. Don't you like it?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the inside of Eames' knee. 

"Yes ... yes I do ... yes. You're torturing me, but I like it ... uh ... just like that ... so good ... mmmmmm." 

Arthur smiles and presses his hand a little harder, making Eames squirm and grunt. This is exactly, _exactly_ , what he's been hoping would happen between them since that first date. He's delighted that Eames is letting him get away with it, just taking what Arthur wants to give him, just enjoying the intensity of the attention. 

"You feel so good, baby," he says without thinking. 

Eames gasps, but Arthur can't tell whether it's at the endearment, or because he's discovered a new sensitivity by swapping his finger out with his thumb, and arching it backward to press into Eames in an entirely new way. 

He feels just heady enough from his own withheld desire to keep talking. 

"So perfect, just right. I could do this all day ... "

Eames groans loudly at that. 

"Darling, I'm not saying I want you to stop, but a whole day might actually kill me." 

And with that he pushes on his heels to gain enough leverage to fuck down on Arthur's thumb, grinding his hips in a circle against it. Arthur looks up at Eames' body, sprawled beneath him, and feels something akin to vertigo. The world is starting to pull away from him, narrowing down once again to just this point of contact between them. He has no choice but to switch back to two fingers. 

"You're entirely too coherent right now," he says, curling both fingers and pressing down with his other hand, causing Eames to writhe and gasp. 

He keeps at it, switching between one finger and two, one thumb and one finger, finally three fingers, until Eames is pulling the sheets out from under the bed, panting and mumbling praise and obscenities alike. He's all sweaty and disheveled and hardly seems aware that Arthur is there, except of course, that Eames says his name every once in a while. 

Arthur takes pity on him and decides not to make Eames wait any longer, as much as he'd like to make him come this way. He leans forward and wraps his mouth around Eames' cock, sucking it down as fast as possible, without even rolling back the foreskin. Eames flails with surprise and almost immediately fills Arthur's mouth with come. 

Slowly, slowly Arthur removes his fingers one at a time, eliciting frantic whimpers from Eames as he semi-accidentally brushes his prostate. Arthur is almost beside himself with lust at this point. But he's determined to let Eames recover for a second before deciding what comes next. He kind of wants to get his dick in that amazing mouth again, but Eames might not be up for it. On the other hand, he might be way to over-sensitized for fucking. He looks utterly blissed out as he lies back, hands over his head, breathing like a sprinter after a race. Arthur gently strokes his thigh and waits. 

"D'you want to fuck me?" Eames asks, looking utterly debauched as he rolls up on his elbows a minute later. His skin is shiny with sweat. His hair is an unholy mess. His mouth looks red and swollen from biting his lips. His eyes have a vaguely stoned look about them. 

"What do you want?" Arthur asks. "What are you up for?"

Eames laughs and looks down at his body, sprawled across the utterly destroyed bed. 

"You took me right apart, I suppose," he says. "Might as well finish the job and put me back together again." 

He winks at this, and rolls over onto his stomach. 

Arthur pops off the bed to drop his pants, grab a condom from the drawer and roll it on. He crawls over Eames to the middle of the bed and wraps his arm around him, pulling Eames over into a spooning position and pushing Eames' top leg up against his chest. 

Surprisingly, after all that, Arthur doesn't quite feel like fucking Eames hard and fast from behind, taking what he needs until he's reached his own climax, even though that's very clearly what Eames is offering. Arthur's feeling a bit tender at the moment and wants to be close. 

Eames is obviously completely stretched and open and Arthur slides home in one push, letting out a small groan as he feels the heat of Eames' ass envelop him. Arthur lets go of Eames' leg and braces his hand across Eames' chest, pulling him back so their bodies are flush, and pushes his own knee up behind Eames', holding him in place. 

He moves in and out of Eames' body in rolling, tidal thrusts. He tries to keep the pace even and slow, because Eames is obviously so over-sensitized that he's barely able to do much more than make almost pained-sounding gasps and whimpers. He's not pushing back against Arthur as he did the night before. He's just encasing Arthur's body, relaxed and taking it. And oh if that isn't even sexier than anything that's come before this moment. Arthur kisses the knob on the back of Eames' neck and nuzzles behind his ear.

"You doing OK, babe?" he whispers, breath hitching at the sublime smoothness of the ride. 

Eames nods minutely. 

"Don't stop ... just don't ... keep ..." he drifts off into keening again.

Arthur is losing himself in the sensation. He holds on just enough to keep the rhythm easy and just sinks into how perfect fucking Eames is in every way, like all of his fantasies come to life. He comes, panting hot breaths into Eames' hair, digging his fingers into Eames' chest muscles. 

He slides out as Eames rolls over, looking dreamily up through his lashes. 

"I'm knackered. Would you mind if dinner's a bit late?" he asks, cracking a terrific yawn? 

"Totally worth it," Arthur replies, rolling so they're snuggled up against one another and closing his eyes, not even bothering to remove the condom.


	4. How About It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur discovers Eames' secret and it tears them apart.

Arthur is sitting in his office, feet propped up on the windowsill, feeling entirely too happy for someone who's facing down a stack of no doubt poorly written midterm papers. The thing is, he's less than a week shy of spring break. So he's grinning despite himself, because in a few days time he'll be free to spend as many nights as he likes out in Red Hook, and be able to take his sweet time getting into the office every day to attend any state-of-the-semester afternoon department meetings and finish up his grading. 

He hasn't seen nearly as much of Eames as he'd have liked over the past week and a half. The run-up to midterms has kept Arthur busy and Eames had been working on a few projects of his own anyway. 

On the plus side, Eames had brought some sandwiches over for another "lunch meeting," during which he'd blown Arthur under the desk and then gotten come everywhere when Arthur had jerked him off in return. Arthur had had to wear his sweater vest inside-out and under a blazer for the rest of the day, but it had been worth it. And he'd stopped by Arthur's apartment one night after work and fucked him hard and fast and perfect up against the bookshelf in his apartment. Afterward they'd ordered Thai and Eames had slept over again, this time with cuddling. 

Arthur thinks that if they make it through his break without any major hitches, it will be time to have the exclusivity conversation. It's not a talk he's actually ever had before, since he and Robert had blown right past it and gone straight to the "I love you" phase, as only the very young and unscarred by life can do. But he's got a pretty good idea of how to broach the subject of their relationship status without it being too awkward. It helps that he's more comfortable being himself with Eames than he's been with anyone he'd met since the day Ariadne had first waltzed into his office in Missouri looking for a three-hole punch, of all things.

And then, out of the blue, it all comes crashing down around his ears. 

He's reading through Kelly Forester's paper--she of the strenuous objections to his generous C+ grade on her last paper--and he spots a sentence that's familiar. Entirely too familiar. It's almost exactly the same as the one he'd noted a few weeks back in the margin of Eames' book on the history of the scientific method, the very book cited in Kelly's paper. 

Arthur tells himself that it could be a coincidence. That two people could arrive at the same idea independently after reading the same book. But deep down he already knows, he fucking _knows_ that Eames wrote that sentence and probably the whole damn paper. 

Kelly just isn't that smart. This paper is leaps and bounds better than her previous one and she's exactly the kind of entitled brat who would rather pay for good work than learn how to do it herself. 

And Eames ... well Arthur can't figure out why Eames, who had been the victim of just this kind of academic misconduct, would resort to selling a term paper. Had Eames _known_ he was helping one of Arthur's students cheat? An icy finger of fear strikes his heart as he wonders: What if Eames is dating him _on purpose_ to milk him for information? That can't possibly be true can it? 

He has to find out how deep this goes for himself. Immediately. 

Without even pausing to figure out whether Eames is home, he runs outside and flags down a cab. If he isn't there, Arthur will sit outside his door until Eames arrives. This absolutely cannot wait. 

His hands are shaking as the cab inches across the Manhattan bridge. He doesn't even know what he's going to say when he finally gets there. In some ways, it doesn't even matter. Just confronting Eames is the important part. The words, if necessary, will come later. 

His stomach is feeling hollow by the time he races up the stairs of Eames' building. Thank God the front door had been left unlatched, so he didn't have to ask for a buzz up. His voice would have betrayed his emotions and he wants to have the advantage in this situation. Of course, that determination doesn't stop him from pounding on door of Eames' apartment like a madman once he's upstairs. 

Eames' face is full of concern when he opens the door, clearly picking up on Arthur's distress. Before he can find the right words, Arthur shoves the paper into Eames' hands. Either he'll recognize it or he won't. 

Arthur's heart breaks a little when he sees Eames' horrified reaction as he looks down at the paper. There's no disguising that he knows exactly what Arthur is accusing him of doing. He doesn't even try to deny it. In fact, he looks almost as sad as Arthur feels. At least that probably means that he didn't know the paper he'd written was for one of Arthur's students. It's a small comfort, but Arthur is glad to know he wasn't intentionally targeted or taken advantage of, just caught in a very ugly, very unfortunate coincidence. 

"Arthur, I ..." Eames starts, voice filled with contrition. 

But Arthur interrupts his apology: "Don't ever call me again. Delete my information from your email. Forget we ever met."

Eames looks devastated. Some tiny part of Arthur feels glad that Eames seems just as heartbroken about the end of this thing between them as he does. 

Maybe that's what compels him to say: "I'm not going to turn you in. But you could have gotten me fired. So don't ever acknowledge that you know me. From now on, we are strangers." 

To make the whole thing maximally humiliating, Arthur has to walk all the way to the F train and spend over an hour making his way across three boroughs to get home. But he really can't afford another long taxi ride. And anyway being in public forces him to keep himself together, which is crucial to his mental well-being at the moment. If he were in private, he might have fallen apart and cried actual tears over this breakup, or whatever the appropriate term is for calling things off with the guy you were on the cusp of asking to be your exclusive partner. 

As it is, when he finally gets home he takes two Benadryl and goes straight to bed, completely throwing off his entire grading schedule. He just can't deal with his brain right now. He needs to shut it off and start fresh in the morning. 

He wakes disoriented and groggy. Remembering the events of the previous evening is like a stab in the gut. 

"How could _Eames_ be a professional plagiarist and cheat?" he asks himself over and over. "How could this be reality?"

It doesn't make any sense with what he knows of Eames' history. He just can't reconcile it. But he has to either figure out a way to do so or just let it go, because he's not going to give Eames the chance to explain himself. He'd closed that door the night before and he has to keep it shut. Any other way would lead to madness, not to mention possible career suicide. 

What surprises him is how hurt and angry he feels throughout the day. He can barely focus on his tasks. He feels ashamed for letting such a short-lived not-quite-relationship affect him so much. 

When he and Robert had broken up, Arthur had felt numb for at least a week afterward. He hadn't raged or cried, not at first, because a large part of him refused to accept that it had happened. Robert had been such an enormous part of his life that the idea that they wouldn't work it out was unthinkable. Even a month later he'd still half expected Robert to show up at his door or in his inbox or on his caller ID and beg for another chance, a chance that Arthur would have given him without thinking twice. He'd believed it for so long that he'd waited an embarrassing amount of time before telling his parents of the breakup. 

He remembers walking around campus, going through the motions of his life, but feeling dead inside, and wondering why people weren't asking him what was wrong. He'd thought the heartbreak was tattooed across his face. But it had been invisible to those around him, which made him question the reality of the breakup all the more. 

Now he's scripting arguments in his head that he'll never get the chance to throw in Eames' face. 

He realizes that his reaction, likely over reaction, to this not-really breakup is probably due to the fact that it's only his second-ever time through the mill (not counting the boys from camp, because there had been no feelings between them, just hormones).

"How pathetic!" he chastises himself. "What is _wrong_ with a man over 30 who is so torn up over a guy he barely knows--a guy who turned out to be basically a criminal--because he's isolated sex and emotion from each other to the degree that he basically has the relationship maturity of a college student?"

The absolute worst part is not being able to tell anyone. 

First and foremost, he wants to find a way to punish Kelly Forester. But he's not sure how to do that without admitting that he knows the culprit personally and that the guy had more-or-less admitted his guilt in a personal confrontation. How could he bear that level of humiliation? How could he prove it without asking Eames to turn himself in? It would basically involve asking the department chair, and probably the dean, to take his word for it that he knew the paper had been bought because he'd unknowingly been sleeping with its true author. Who would believe him? How could he possibly emerge clean? 

The tenure-review board would surely make note of such an incident. Outing Kelly's misconduct would hurt him nearly as much as it hurt her, possibly more. He hates that his hands are tied. Sure, if she gets caught for something else down the road, no one could ever prove that he'd known she'd cheated. But _he will always know_ and he will never forgive himself. 

He doesn't even feel like he can talk to Ariadne about it, because she will judge him forever. He's tainted now. It may have been completely accidental, but if anyone finds out, he will never be rid of it. 

Not knowing what else to do, he shows up on the doorstep of Dom's brownstone with puppy dog eyes and a twelve-pack of Brooklyn Lager that evening after work. He can't tell Dom what happened, but Arthur knows that his old friend will accept his sadness without needling him for answers. 

They sit and drink and listen to Dom's hipster records. Conversation ebbs and flows, but never broaches the subject of why Arthur is there. He'd nursed Dom through the early days of his divorce in much the same manner back in the Fall when he'd first arrived in New York and on the scene of a domestic disaster. Dom is pretty much his only straight male friend. He can't say he'd like it if all of his relationships would so easily default to non-verbal. But it's nice to be able to hang out and not be pressed for details. With Dom, what gets said and what doesn't is always left to Arthur's discretion. 

He and Dom have known each other since childhood. Although they'd grown a bit apart during high school--when Dom was interested in keggers and cheerleaders and all that teen movie shit and Arthur was interested in avoiding crushes on unattainable guys--they'd ended up at the same college, where their friendship had rekindled after Dom's then-girlfriend, now ex-wife, had done a project with Robert in one of his economics classes. 

Finally he broaches the subject: "So I was seeing someone for a while, just a few weeks, but we split up yesterday. I can't believe how much it sucks."

"Tell me about it. I never wanted to do this shit as an adult, certainly not here. Girls here are just ... tough."

"Well boys here are no picnic either." 

"I'm sorry it didn't work out, man."

"Yeah, well, at least I tried, right?"

They clink beer bottles and go back to discussing upcoming movies. 

He feels slightly better when he hops on the Subway home an hour later. It's going to be unexpectedly painful, getting over Eames, but at least he's not as much of a mess as poor Dom, whose wife ran off with an energy mogul old enough to be her father.

But by the morning he's despondent again, realizing that instead of looking forward to a slow week filled with great sex and good conversation and a budding relationship with Eames, he's facing down a lot of time alone in his apartment or sitting in his office on a deserted campus. 

In a fit of poor judgement and impulse control he buys a plane ticket to visit his parents for four days, paying with his emergencies-only credit card. He tells his department heads that he has to take care of a family situation, but will be back Wednesday morning with his grades ready. Luckily no one seems to mind. But he fears he'll regret the decision when he's sitting bored around his parent's house wondering why he chose to spend his free time in Wisconsin rather than Manhattan. 

Nevertheless, the prospect of the trip is enough to propel him through the remainder of the week. And when he sits down in the plane with his stack of papers and tests to grade, a weight lifts from his chest. 

His parents are almost embarrassingly excited to see him. He realizes it's been a long time since he visited unprompted and they're over the moon at the attention. 

He finds it's surprisingly easy to lounge around the house grading papers and drinking his dad's fancy teas and his mom's nice wine, pausing throughout the day for snacks or gossip about the neighbors, breaking each evening to help prepare dinner. 

They don't ask what prompted the visit. They don't ask, thank God, if he's been dating anyone--probably inured to the question from so many years of negative responses, because he certainly hadn't ever shared any details of his sex life with them. As far as they know, he's been a monk since Robert left and he's fine with that.

He remembers some straight guys in college getting very fraternity brother high five-esque input from their fathers about the girls they'd slept with on campus. And he has a gay friend who tell his mother about every date he goes on, if maybe not all the sordid details. But Arthur doesn't have that kind of relationship with either parent. They're completely supportive of him and they'd loved Robert like he was family, but he can't talk to them about casual relationships. He just can't. 

They do inquire after Dom, whom they're happy to hear Arthur just saw, and about Ariadne, whom they'd taken a shine to on one of their visits to Missouri and who is now on their Christmas card list. And they ask him informed questions about his classes and the research he'd like to be doing if he had more time. He feels simply ... lucky, to have such a loving and accepting family to run home to when things get rough. In fact, calling the whole Eames situation rough seems silly from this perspective. His chances aren't over. 

Just look at his parents, comfortable but still affectionate with each other after all these years. His dad grabs his mom's ass when she's setting the table and he thinks Arthur isn't looking. They hold hands on the couch while watching the news.Now that he's had a taste of what it might be like to want such a thing for himself once again, he knows he can get back out there and find it ... eventually. 

He's struck by the vast difference in his romantic expectations at 22 and his romantic expectations at 32. At one time, Arthur had assumed he and Robert would grow old together. His younger self had had no qualms about this idea. He wasn't like Mal, who had run away from her marriage, because she was afraid of having missed opportunities by settling with Dom so young. 

It was funny that Ari and other friends thought him this incorrigible cad of a playboy. But all Arthur'd ever really wanted was love and romance, he'd just stopped believing he deserved it for a long while. He'd been terrified of being forced to choose between his relationship and his career again, because he knew he'd always go the same way. Unfortunately, the whole Eames affair has him half convinced that there's no point in trying anymore. But he's trying his best to fight that instinct.

\---

When he arrives back home--as strange as it is to think of his Queens apartment as such--late Tuesday night, he feels somewhat re-calibrated, more like himself. And it's easy to get lost in work Wednesday morning, catching up on all he'd missed during the first two days of break. He submits his grades for all of his sections except Kelly Forester's, unwilling to admit to himself that he's lost that fight just yet. 

He grabs drinks with Dom after work. They talk about his visit home, which easily turns to gossip and then reminiscing. They're close enough these days that Arthur can roll his eyes and remind Dom that they didn't exactly run in the same circles when Dom brings up memories of specific football parties or school dances. 

"I was the yearbook editor and an untalented theater kid, Dom. Not one of your prepster jock friends. It's like you've made up this entirely fictional past for me."

"Yeah, well, I don't know why you were in charge of corralling our memories, considering you were never around when anything worth remembering was happening." 

"I think that was entirely the point. Letting the overly studious, wannabe artsy, closeted gay kid be in charge made sure we presented exactly the sanitized version of high school that kept parents paying for the yearbook's printing costs year after year." 

Dom laughs. Then he elbows Arthur in a friendly way and says, "yeah, well, you certainly have much more of a life than I do now, so I think you got the better end of the deal." 

Arthur shakes his head and rolls his eyes so hard it hurts a bit. 

"Dom there is no reason on earth that you're single, except that you want to be. You've got an interesting job. You must make quite a good salary, considering your house. Don't take this in a creepy way, but you're easy on the eyes. You're waiting for the perfect woman to just appear on your doorstep, no effort expended. "

"Oh you're one to talk." 

"Hey, a week ago yesterday, I was seeing someone." 

In the effort to make his point, Arthur elides over the fact that he and Eames were never officially a couple, even though they were at least halfway toward behaving like one. At least. 

But he's trying to get Dom out there and being social again. It may be early for him to start dating, but Arthur worries that Dom doesn't even have any other non-work friends in this city. Mal had been such a social butterfly and Dom had just been along for the ride. Arthur wouldn't be surprised if none of their friends had stuck with Dom in the wake of Mal's departure.

Granted Dom is the only non-professional friend Arthur has in New York, so he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on in this fight. But he's only been living here since September and much of his first few months were spent commiserating with Dom about Mal running away, so he tells himself that it's somewhat more excusable. 

He's well buzzed when he heads home--extracting a promise that Dom will try online dating as soon as the weather turns. But he's also a little glum about probably having to try the same himself before too long. Now that the feeling of wanting to be part of a couple--something more whole than just being on the prowl all the time--has been rekindled in him, going back to his old lifestyle seems decidedly less appealing. But he's not willing to trust a chance meeting again.With his luck, he'd probably end up sleeping with a student. 

Between the alcohol and the melancholy mood, he's particularly unprepared when he rounds the corner and sees Eames sitting on the floor outside his apartment door. He's stunned out of gracious behavior in the face of his heartache. 

"Who let you in here and how did you know I was on my way home? Are you stalking me?"

Eames looks up, expression a mix of humiliation and hurt. He stands awkwardly. 

"Please, Arthur, if I might just have a word. I promise to be out of your hair forever afterward, only I just have to talk to you. Please?"

Arthur knows he can blame the cocktails tomorrow when, against every ounce of judgement he has, he lets Eames into his apartment. 

It's painful being this close to him again. Despite being quite disheveled, Eames still looks sexy as hell in worn, baggy jeans and a battered wool jacket over a sweatshirt from his undergraduate university. When Arthur takes his coat, he can't help inhaling that particular blend of fragrances that make up Eames' natural scent--a mix that reminds Arthur of sex and books and cigarettes and sun-warmed skin, with possibly a hint of furniture polish under it all. 

Eames stands awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, until Arthur invites him to take a seat. 

"First off, I know I can never set things right. But I felt I could do some small part ... So I ... I crafted two extraordinarily similar papers, but not exact duplicates, and managed to get them online. One is on one of those paper-selling sites, the other is just on a random personal site I built just for this. One or both should be turned up by that software that searches for plagiarized material if you run your student's paper through." 

He hands Arthur a notecard with two urls printed on it in neat handwriting. 

"Those are the sites, just in case. It should be enough to initiate a case against her. I know you won't forgive me, but I want you to be able to forgive yourself."

Arthur refuses to seem at all grateful for this assistance. Perhaps later, when Eames is gone, Arthur can be impressed with his grasp of Arthur's position and his willingness to make sure Kelly Forester gets caught, or at least to make sure that Arthur won't have to bite his tongue about what he discovered. But for now, it's enough a kindness that he'd let Eames in the door. He simply cannot let anymore daylight through the wall he's constructed around this situation. So he just silently nods in acknowledgment. 

"Furthermore, I know I don't stand a hope of forgiveness. But for my own sanity, I need to tell you that absolutely nothing about this was intentional. I did not know the paper was for your class. I promise you. Nothing about my personal interest in you was related to my professional commitment to write that paper, such as it was. I'd even checked your course-load, just to make certain that it wasn't likely to be one of your students. She had told me that it was for an ecological philosophy course, so I thought there was little to no chance it could be related." 

Arthur stares at him stoney faced for a moment before responding. 

"I'd surmised as much from your shocked reaction to seeing the paper. Not Kelly's lie about the class, obviously. Perhaps she's a bit more clever than I'd given her credit for. But I'd realized you hadn't targeted me, at least." 

Eames looks pained by Arthur's coldness. Too bad. He came here. He can suffer, because Arthur surely will as soon as he's out the door. 

Eames takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for whatever comes next. It casts a chill over Arthur's heart. He doesn't want to hear begging. He doesn't want to hear excuses. He is still curious about how Eames came to stoop so low, but he would rather not know if it involves some kind of sob story. 

"I also want you to know--for my own peace of mind, not because I'm expecting anything to come of it--that I was planning to give it up if things progressed with us much further. I ... it's foolish to even discuss it, but I did have ... _feelings_ for you, Arthur, which were well on their way to becoming quite serious. And I didn't want to disrespect you or put you at risk. But I wanted to be sure, because as terrible as I know you think it is, this is how I've earned my living and I didn't want to chuck it if I didn't think you felt the same way. Again, I know I don't stand a chance. I just ... I need you to know that I planned to discuss where we stood with you this week and that if we were to ... if we became ... if you had expressed similar feelings then I was going to honor any existing commitments for the remainder of the year, but stop taking new commissions." 

At this Arthur's heart breaks all over again. He thinks about how just a week earlier he'd been sitting in his office daydreaming about Eames being his boyfriend--hopeful that Eames felt the same way, but unsure enough about it to be nervous at the idea of putting his cards on the table. The sense of lost potential he'd been fighting all week floods him again. 

He's humiliated that his voice cracks a bit as he asks: "So what then? What was your plan if this had worked? To just hope I never found out?" 

Eames flushes and looks at the floor. 

"Actually I ... this is beyond embarrassing, but I'd told myself that if I was able to get a year between myself and my final paper without incident, and if you were still a part of my life, then I'd come clean and put myself at your mercy." 

Arthur closes his eyes. He really wishes he hadn't asked. It's painful to think about some alternate version of himself who is enough in love with Eames to hash out the problem together, rather than just shove him out the door. He hates that Eames had imagined them together that way. He hates having confirmation that they'd been hoping for the same things now when knowing it only makes the loss more painful. 

But he's also angry. Not specifically at Eames, although that too, but at the situation, at himself even. So he indulges himself and asks: "What would you have said? How could you possibly have explained yourself?" 

Eames looks at him, eyes wide with surprise. 

"I don't know, Arthur. I suppose I would have pleaded my case based on a more than a year of shared history. I would have shown you that I had given it up and was not going to turn back to it out of desperation."

His voice is so soft, aware that he's exposing his secrets to Arthur. 

"I would have ... reminded you of what a wonderful boyfriend I'd been in every other regard." 

"And reminded me of all the income you'd given up for me?" Arthur asks, but he regrets his tone immediately, because Eames, damn him, seems so vulnerable and he doesn't want to shatter the tentative peace they've reached. 

"No. No I don't think so. I would have been so ... determined not to risk losing you. I doubt I would have tried to play any kind of sacrifice on my own part." 

"Would it have been?"

"Yes. This pays embarrassingly well. But ... it's not something I wanted to do forever. And I don't need it. I could have tightened my belt for ... "

He trails off, leaving the "you" thankfully unspoken. 

"Eames ... " Arthur replies, voice a mixture of curiosity and frustration. "How did you even get started in this sort of thing in the first place?"

Part of him is asking, because it hasn't made any damn sense to him. But he knows another part just wants to keep Eames around for a while longer, because he's missed talking to him this past week. 

"Being at loose ends, anger, resignation," Eames shrugs. "Do you really want to hear the full tale? 

Arthur sighs and gets up from his chair. Eames makes to leave, but Arthur heads to the cupboard instead and opens a bottle of wine he'd been intending to bring out to Red Hook and drink with Eames one night this week anyway. Funny how things work out. 

Eames looks at him strangely as he pours two glasses, but he sits back and starts talking. 

"When I left Boston, initially it was just supposed to for be a month or so, to clear my head of all the drama and test out the idea of living here with Dennis. Well you know how things ended with him, more or less. But during the two months I spent trying to make it work, I did fall a bit in love with the city. And I was deeply afraid of returning to school. Despite all the wretchedness with Dennis, walking away from that place had felt like a weight lifting from my chest. I had no desire to go back. So I tapped into my family money and found an apartment and started working for a tutoring service preparing high school students for the SAT. I bartended a bit, too, but I'm honestly rather rubbish at it, or at least at the drink-fixing part. I'm rather good at the listening-to-people's-problems part. But that's neither here nor there ... the point is that after a few weeks, parents approached me with offers for private tutoring sessions, which turned into requests for assistance with university acceptance essays, which turned into attempts to get me to do actual schoolwork. And I was furious about it. I mean this wasn't coming from the children. It was the sodding _parents_ who were asking, without any regard to what it would teach their children. And although I declined repeatedly, at a certain point I just gave up. I came to the conclusion that this is just how the world works now. So few care about learning for the sake of edification. It's all about ticking the necessary boxes for getting the type of job your family expects and then going on to make fabulous amounts of wealth. I started to wonder if Dennis had cheated his way into--or through--business school. I feared by brother had done the same. I spiraled into a very dark mindset and gave in."

He pauses and gulps inelegantly from his wineglass. Arthur isn't quite sure what to think. At least the story jibes with his earlier knowledge of Eames and his cynicism about Arthur's line of work. He'd just never have imagined it extended quite so far. 

"But the thing is, Arthur, once I started doing it properly, once I extended to university and even graduate students, I came to _like_ it. It was tremendously fulfilling work, in a very perverse way. Part of me hated my clients for eschewing the learning process. But another part of me, the part that loved being a student with all his heart, absolutely reveled in the idea of getting paid to _learn_ , and without the pitfalls of specialization. I read and researched and wrote about such an enormous variety of subjects and I taught myself to do it very quickly, although no less thoroughly than would be expected at that level of scholarship. It's _fun_ , Arthur. I know it is wrong. I know my ethics are all bollocksed up. But the hardest part of giving it up, honestly, would be losing the constant incentive to keep learning, keep meeting deadlines. Perhaps I should have been a journalist after all ... "

Arthur is dumbstruck. Hearing this both horrifies his professional sensibilities and piques his interest as a fellow lover of learning. How often has he lamented that his students seem to only care about clearing the hurdles they need to graduate and not at all about actually gaining knowledge? Hearing once again that Eames feels the same way, but has chosen to take a very different tack with it, well, it's painful. They are so compatible, except for the one thing, the thing about which Arthur, no matter how much he wants to right now, simply can't allow himself to let down his guard. 

He drains his glass, pours another and drains that too. 

"Eames I really hate you right now," he says. 

Eames looks alarmed as Arthur stalks over, as if he's afraid they are about to get into a fist fight. Hardly. 

"Everything you say is perfect. Your thoughts mirror my own so closely that it makes me catch my breath. I should want to throw you out of my house after confessing what you've done. But I _don't_. You make me wish that your little fantasy life for us had come to fruition, because maybe a year and change into a relationship I could find a way to forgive you, to spin it into a funny story about your past. But _I can't_ Eames. I fucking can't, and it's killing me." 

His voice has risen to a loud pitch and he's no-doubt red in the face from drinking and anger and arousal. Eames still looks as if he isn't quite sure what to do with this information. So Arthur reaches out and hauls him forward, pressing their mouths together, desperate for one last night together. At least this time he'll go into it knowing he can't ever have it again. 

Eames gasps and kisses Arthur back. But he has the decency to pull away after a minute or two. 

"Are you quite sure this is a good idea? You did just say you hated me after all." 

"I hate you for making me want you so much, when I know I can't let myself have you. And anyway, haven't you ever heard of ex-sex? This is like that, only different ... Now shut up before you ruin it." 

Eames frowns for a few seconds, but then leans forward and kisses Arthur's again. 

He follows every one of Arthur's whims without taking any initiative of his own. Whether it's because he's contrite or he's simply trying to avoid to get kicked out with a case of blue balls, Arthur isn't sure. But he's not going to complain, because he has rules for himself about how this can go down and he doesn't want Eames testing them. No bed. No tenderness. 

This is how they end up on the floor, Arthur holding Eames down by the shoulders and grinding against him like he doesn't even care if it hurts. He needs to maintain control of the situation, so Arthur can't let Eames get his hands on his body, not now, not when Arthur could so easily lose himself and want things he can't allow. 

"I want to fuck you," he says. 

Eames responds with a strained laugh. 

"One for the road, eh?"

Arthur doesn't deign to respond. He just tilts his head and waits for Eames to respond. 

"Of course you can, darling." 

"Don't call me that," he answers and tugs Eames' pants off. 

He rises and stumbles over to his bedside to retrieve the necessary supplies. When he turns back around, Eames is somehow already naked. Perhaps he thought Arthur needed a little extra incentive to keep from changing his mind. Arthur's not going to complain. This is his last chance to look at that fantastic body and he wants to drink it in. 

Speaking of which ... he crouches over Eames and takes his dick down his throat--no preamble. Eames gasps and arches off the floor, clearly surprised by what must seem like kindness from Arthur, considering their situation. But in reality, Arthur wants him to suffer. 

He remembers how oversensitized Eames had been when Arthur had fucked him in Red Hook after fingering him for so long. It had seemed almost to the point of discomfort, and Arthur had been so gentle and tender inside him to keep it on the right side of good. This time he isn't going to take it easy though. He'll make sure Eames doesn't forget him. 

He holds Eames down with his forearm and sucks him as deep and hard as he's able, not relenting at all until he pulls back to grab the lube he'd set on the coffee table. He's not rough when he inserts his middle finger into Eames' ass. But he's not gentle, either, sliding the whole thing in at once as Eames whines and writhes beneath him. He works quickly, no teasing, and when he's able to add a second finger he puts his mouth back to work as well, trying to make Eames come as hard and as fast as he can. 

It's illogical to want to rush this, considering he can't let himself have it again. But luxuriating in Eames' pleasure, in his luscious body, would create too much of a risk for tenderness, for feelings to rear their ugly head. He can't let that happen. So he keeps up an almost brutal pace, thrusting his fingers in and out, curling them over Eames' prostate every time, and working his throat until he's gagging and drooling. 

Eames, for his part, is moaning loudly, with no shame. If Arthur didn't know him, he'd think it was a performance. But he's had enough experience with Eames to know that he just doesn't hold back his own pleasure unless it's absolutely necessary (like, say, in Arthur's office). 

He warns Arthur with a squeeze to the shoulder when he's close and Arthur, feeling cruel, keeps his lips clamped around Eames' dick, but doesn't swallow. Instead he crawls up Eames' body and kisses him, pushing Eames' own come out onto his tongue. It's disgusting. And it's nothing Arthur would ordinarily do, but Eames just shivers and swallows it down without complaint.

He rolls over onto his back, pulling Eames on top of him. He wants to see Eames ride his cock. He wants to see him looking down, face flushed, mouth open, eyes rolling, almost suffering in his ecstasy. Together, they're fumbling at Arthur's clothes, hands brushing, breathing into each other's mouths.

When he's mostly naked, Arthur reaches up and slides his fingers back into Eames, who whimpers, clearly oversensitized. 

"I don't care if it's too much. I want you right now," Arthur whispers, and he guides Eames' hips down until his cock is brushing up against his own knuckles, which are still buried in Eames' ass. He deftly switches them out, pulling Eames down, slowly, slowly, slowly until they're flush against each other. 

He gives Eames no more than a few seconds to adjust and then uses both hands to move him up and back down, setting a fast pace. 

"Don't you dare slow down," he gasps when Eames plants one foot on the floor and leans forward to balance his hands on Arthur's bare chest.

Eames' eyes are screwed shut and he's biting his lower lip, but he keeps up the relentless motion, as Arthur requested. It's punishing. It's perfect. For his part, Arthur digs his fingers into Eames' hips and tries to hold on as long as he can. This is his last chance at this pice of ass. This is his best opportunity to make Eames remember him. This is the only way he can bring himself to punish Eames for destroying all the potential between them. 

And Eames does seem to be suffering a bit. His expression is one of pleasure to the point of pain. It's satisfying in a way that shocks Arthur a bit. He's always considered himself a kind and generous lover. But, then again, he's never been quite so angry at someone he's fucking, either. After all, it's hard to be too mad at someone you've just picked up for the night. 

When he can't hold out any longer, Arthur pulls Eames against him, stopping his motion. 

"Don't you _ever_ forget me, you asshole," he pants as he comes. Not the most elegant thing to say, but it's his only thought amidst the shudders of pleasure that take over his body. 

They dress quickly, no lazing about or lingering post-coital kisses. It's time to say goodbye and end the charade that this can mean anything more to either of them. Somehow it feels strangely comforting to know that they're on the same page about the breakup--neither one wants it, but both understand that it's necessary. Arthur trusts Eames not to try to turn this into anything more now that he's had a chance to say his piece. 

Standing at his door, Arthur holds up the notecard and says, "thanks for this. It should help." 

Eames looks up and says, "you can't know how sorry I am."

"About as sorry as I feel that this can't go anywhere. Just for the record, I could have fallen for you so hard." 

It's funny that he'd spent their entire time together afraid of saying too much, of seeming too eager, but now that it's all ruined anyway, it's easy for Arthur to admit his feelings. 

Eames' face is full of regret as he turns the knob, but Arthur is glad that he doesn't attempt to change his mind. There's a quiet dignity to the way they end it, without even a kiss goodbye. 

\---

Fortunately, Eames was right about the plagiarism software pinging the work he'd posted online when Arthur runs Kelly Forester's paper through it. He files a complaint against her immediately afterward, with the full support of the department. 

The situation with Kelly takes up a lot of his non-class time, between meeting with his department chair and various deans, as well as the appeals process initiated by her family. But he forces himself to create an online dating profile in April, because he'd promised Dom he would. 

He goes out on four dates, one each weekend before the rush of finals starts in late May. None of them really pique his interest for anything beyond a night of dinner and conversation and casual sex. In fact, he doesn't even sleep with one of them, which he's pretty sure breaks some sort of universal law of thermodynamics or something. Ari actually drops her phone when he tells her. 

When she asks what ever happened with Eames, he makes up a vague story about how they went out once but it got weird when they'd run into an ex of Eames' at a bar and he'd had decided to let the situation lie. She doesn't question it. 

A week before the end of the semester, Arthur emerges victorious. It doesn't exactly feel like a win, getting a young girl kicked out of school. But given Kelly's parent's insistence that their daughter was only playing by the rules of the "real world" he feels confident that her future is far from ruined. They'll find a way to talk some other place into giving her another chance. He's sure of it. 

He wishes he could tell Eames--not only to thank him, but to convince him that sometimes money and influence don't make the rules. But he can't. Further contact would just be wrong and confusing for both of them. 

But two weeks into what's shaping up to be a very pleasant summer, with only one class to teach--and in his actual subject at that--Arthur gets a letter, an honest-to-God letter, with a return address marked simply "Double E" in the box at his apartment. He knows he shouldn't open it. Whatever it is, it can only lead to trouble. 

But, of course, he can't help himself. 

The handwritten note is short and simple:

_Arthur,_

_If you are willing, I should like to discuss a matter with you at your earliest convenience. I give you my word that this request is both entirely professional and entirely above board. Please know I would not write to you unless it were truly urgent. If you are so inclined, please contact me with a time and place we could meet._

_Cheers,  
Eames_

Arthur is torn. On the one hand, he should have nothing further to do with Eames. On the other, their parting had convinced him that Eames would not attempt to trick him into another sexual encounter. If Eames is writing, it is truly because only Arthur can fulfill this professional need, whatever it might be. 

Arthur wonders if he's looking for some kind of job recommendation in an attempt to go on the straight and narrow. Arthur isn't sure he could vouch for Eames, not if there's any chance of his off-the-books work ever being discovered. But if he says no, then it might discourage Eames from trying to leave that life behind, which is the last thing Arthur want to do. 

He decides to acquiesce to the meeting, and sends Eames a quick email, suggesting that they have coffee the following week. He goes online and finds a Starbucks on an exceedingly bland block of the Upper East Side, one where Arthur is sure he won't meet anyone he knows and sends the address in another message.

He's not proud of it, but he makes sure to dress especially nice that morning. He isn't going to let anything happen with Eames. _He isn't_. But that doesn't mean he doesn't want to look good for him. 

He's nervous as he approaches the selected Starbucks. He's not sure whether it's about his attraction to Eames or his fear of getting caught associating with a cheater. Probably both. 

Eames is seated in the corner when Arthur arrives. They shake hands, no cheek kiss this time. Eames' body language is purely professional. He sits up straight and looks Arthur in the eye, unsmiling. He's never seen this kind of bland expression on Eames' face and it's a bit unsettling.

Arthur goes up to the counter to order, and takes a series of deep breaths to keep his head straight. 

"I have a business proposition for you," Eames says as soon as Arthur returns with his coffee. "No, nothing like what you're thinking. It's completely and utterly legal. But you happen to be ... let's say _uniquely_ qualified to work with me on this." 

Arthur raises an eyebrow. He did not come here looking for a chance to make money on the side, no matter how un-shady Eames' idea may be. 

"Let me start at the beginning," Eames says, noting Arthur's skepticism. "I finished my book and I've been shopping it around with some degree of success." 

"Congratulations." 

Arthur's words are genuine. He's glad Eames is doing something that's worthy of his background. 

"It's looking likely that it will get a small run with an imprint of Proclus Publishing. But that's only the background to my story. As you probably know, Proclus publishes several magazines, in addition to their various book divisions. So in the process of negotiating the book deal, I mentioned interest in pitching some journalistic pieces as well. I was met with reluctance, but as luck would have it I quite literally bumped into an editor at _Telegraph_ , their newsmagazine ..."

Does Eames think Arthur is stupid? Of course he knows _Telegraph_. It has to be one of the best-read analytical magazines in the country. 

"... anyway, I pitched her an idea and she was interested, but not properly convinced I could deliver. Since the idea was to give the inside story on the world of academic cheating, well, you are aware that I would be capable. But I didn't want to reveal the more-sordid details of my background to her. It was quite the quandary. But somehow I convinced her to let me speak with the publisher, assuring that I could offer quite the scoop if the magazine could guarantee protection of my sources. One thing led to another and somehow I managed to half sell Saito--the head of the company, you know of him, yes?--on the possibility of a book. And this is where you would come in. The book would be written with alternating chapters, forming kind of a dialogue between an anonymous 'cheater' such as myself and a professor such as yourself, a conversation that would encompass the problems with our education system today and break open the secrecy of my former job--yes _I said former_ \--to show how rampant academic malfeasance really is these days." 

Arthur is stunned. 

"Are you serious?"

"Quite. I told him I knew of a professor who could be the perfect foil to my arguments. I didn't tell him your name, of course. You could be anonymous, or known. It would be up to you. But he's very interested. He thinks it could sell very well, be the sort of thing people talk about at the proverbial water cooler and buy for their co-worker's and relatives as birthday gifts. He talked about excerpting it in _Telegraph_ to drive discussion. What do you think?"

"I ... "

Arthur doesn't know what to say. It's so utterly unexpected. 

"Sorry, I'm just ... I didn't have a clue what you'd contacted me about, but this is ... a surprise. Tell me how you envision it working." 

"Well I'm sure you'd want to meet with Saito first, just to get all the assurances about your privacy that you may need. Then perhaps you and I could hash out a basic outline of chapters or topics we'd like to cover and then set up a writing schedule, perhaps where one writes something and the other responds. We could each take the lead on certain subjects and the response on others."

"You've given this some thought." 

"I wouldn't have come to you unless I was quite certain this was a feasible idea, Arthur." 

Arthur smiles wanly. 

"I appreciate that, Eames. Or should I call you Ethan again?"

"Whichever you like." 

"OK well how about if you arrange a meeting with Saito where I could learn the specifics. I would definitely prefer to remain anonymous, if I do it."

"Are you certain? If Saito is correct, it could benefit your career to use your name." 

"No I'm not certain, but my gut says this is something I'd prefer to keep quiet. What if I was asked how I'd been approached for the project? What if I was asked if I knew the other author? And how I knew him? Seems safer to hide in anonymity."

They shake hands again and Arthur heads back toward campus, thoughts rushing and tumbling over each other. Is this really something he could do? Would it actually raise awareness about the flaws in higher education? Would he be able to work closely with Eames without their mutual attraction interfering? 

As it turns out, the meeting with Saito the following week is less of a Q&A and more of a job interview for Arthur. He can't even be mad at Eames for belatedly Google stalking him, because he's come prepared with printouts of several of Arthur's publications. He'd taken the time to find the most accessible work, some perspective pieces he'd written for journals, something he'd put together for his alumni magazine and an essay he'd published as an undergraduate about the importance of science history. Arthur knows the selection is paltry, but he's grateful that Eames thought to be prepared. 

Arthur finds that while he'd arrived at the meeting with an attitude of casual curiosity, he's suddenly desperate to be selected as Eames' co-author. He doesn't know whether it's his natural competitiveness taking over in the face of Saito's skepticism, or that he's developed an interest in the project since Eames pitched it to him, but he's determined to prove his worth. 

Nevertheless, he pulls Eames aside on their way out of the building. 

"I know how this sounds, but I have to ask ... you selected me for the right reasons, right? For professional ones? I actually really want to do this, but I'm not going to if you don't actually think I'm qualified and you just want another shot at dating me." 

Eames' expression, bless him, is incredulous. 

"Arthur, you made your feelings about that possibility very clear. I have no hopes other than writing this book with you. I suggested you because you know my secret and because we've had many discussions about these issues that I found rather thrilling and I think others might, too." 

Arthur offers an embarrassed smile.

"Sorry. I know that made me sound incredibly vain and self-centered." 

"No. It was valid. The truth is that I desperately want this book to come to fruition. Since I first thought of it, I've felt tremendously proprietary about this project. And I truly and honestly think you are both my best shot at ending up with the product I want and, essentially, the only person I trust to help me bring it into being." 

Arthur is taken aback. It's almost more raw and emotional than a romantic declaration would have been. 

"Well I want to do it. I'm not sure Saito is convinced though."

"Yes, I'm sorry about that. I didn't realize he'd treat it as an audition. I'd only brought those clips of yours as an afterthought. But I'm glad I did. I should have been better prepared. We will be next time. Do you have anything else you can show?"

It takes several more meetings, and more writing samples that Arthur manages to dredge up from one place or another, but finally Saito agrees to hire him. The whole process is stretched out over a couple of weeks, because Arthur can only meet on days when he isn't scheduled to teach. 

Next, of course, come the contract negotiations, for which Arthur is utterly unprepared. 

This time, Eames is the one to grab Arthur for a private chat. 

"Arthur, do you by any chance have an attorney whom you could bring to negotiations."

"Eames, I'm a professor, I couldn't possibly afford that.There's a university attorney I could use in the course of my work, if necessary. But I don't think that's a good idea, here."

Eames frowns. 

"It has been recommended to me that I bring someone to represent my interests next week when we meet again. Could you ... muster up some cash for legal representation. I am concerned that you won't be protected." 

"Eames the kind of lawyer I could afford would probably be useless. What are you afraid is going to happen? I'm not really doing this for money." 

"My concern is less about financial matters and more about what happens if somehow our identities are made known. I'm not sure that it would be in your best interests to ask for the same obligations from the company that my lawyer will be seeking. Our situations are quite different, after all." 

Arthur shakes his head. He sees Eames' point. If they are caught, Arthur's job could be at risk. But he's practically living hand-to-mouth as it is, aside from his measly 401k, there just isn't any money for him to use. 

"I'd offer to lend you the money until we get our advance, but I doubt you'd accept." 

"How could I, Eames?"

"What if I promised only to use funds from my family trust?" 

Arthur is pained. For the first time, he sees the drawbacks of this project. How can he make any choices, move forward in any way, when Eames' horrible secret is boxing him in at every direction? 

"No I still think it would be a terrible idea. I'll just have to ask for the same provisions you request and keep my fingers crossed." 

Eames smiles grimly. 

"If that's what you think best." 

"Thank you for warning me, Eames." 

"Of course. I only wish I'd been instructed about this sooner. I thought it would be much like the contracts I sign for my freelance work, standard boilerplate. I suppose we're both in a bit over our heads here. I'll inform my lawyer about your situation, tell him to do the best he can to take you into account on our requests." 

"That's very kind of you, Eames. Thank you."

Arthur turns to leave with a grateful smile. 

"Arthur?" Eames asks in a hesitant voice. 

"Yes?"

"If you're not doing this for the money, then why?"

Stupidly, Arthur's brain goes blank at the question. He can't very well say, "because you asked me" or "because Saito brought out my competitive instinct." But he can't think of any better options, and remains silent for far too long. 

Finally he says: "Because I think it could do some good, perhaps shed light on a growing problem. And because I think it will be ... fun? I think I'll enjoy having this debate with you. I find the prospect of discussing these ideas in such a free and open way, I don't know, exciting. And challenging. And I like the idea of having a private project like this, something set apart from the rest of my career." 

Eames' answering smile is brilliant and Arthur feels warm just looking at it.

All week Arthur mulls over the reasons that he'd given Eames for wanting to participate in the project. He realizes that ever since that day months ago, when Eames had show up at his door and explained himself, he'd been thinking about how Eames seemed so happy and fulfilled by his work and he'd been, there's no other word for it ... a bit _jealous_. 

Deep down he knows that this project is his chance to step outside of his life and just learn and write and debate for the sake of pleasure. And he's thrilled to have the opportunity. But now as it draws closer to reality he's also a bit terrified, too. There could be real consequences if he's discovered. He simply has to trust that Saito's promised protections will remain ironclad, because he's in too deep to give up now. This book is his life raft to a better way of working, to creating something for himself and not bowing down to the system. He could never do what Eames had done, but he finally understands the appeal and wants to taste a version of it for himself. 

At the next meeting Arthur is nearly bowled over when Yusuf strolls into Saito's office. He's almost unrecognizable in an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit and clean shaven with his hair slicked back. 

"He's your _lawyer_?" Arthur whispers to Eames while everyone is still getting situated around the large conference table. 

Eames shrugs. 

"Yusuf is a man of many talents. As I told you before, he helped me with my website. He also happens to be an attorney. Finding someone with both skill sets was a tremendous asset for me, even if he can be a bit of an arse. I'd never have been able to build a proper business if I hadn't had him on my team. ... Of course he also took a significant share of my earnings in exchange. But I couldn't very well leave him out at this stage of the game now could I?" Eames murmurs in return. 

It has to be the most confusing day of Arthur's life. He sits nearly mute for several hours as Yusuf and two of the company lawyers, both of whom are even better dressed and infinitely more terrifying looking, plod through the contract, page by indecipherable page. He feels a bit dizzy thinking about how much faith he's put into Eames'--and by proxy Yusuf's--hands here. 

Even though he's done nothing but sit in a chair for hours at a time, Arthur exhales a shaky, exhausted breath when the heavily marked-up contract is finally agreed upon by both sides. Saito offers to have the clean versions messengered over to Arthur and Eames at their apartments that afternoon. But Arthur says he wants to stay and wait, and Eames follows suit without hesitation. 

They're ushered to a small private lounge area outside of Saito's office--the necessity of protecting their privacy means they aren't allowed into the cafeteria or any of the main public rooms. 

"So should we start planning out the chapter organization?" he asks. "You know, since we're here." 

"If you like. Although, to be honest, I'm a bit numb from listening to all that legal rubbish. But even that can't entirely sweep away the elation I have now that this is almost certainly going to happen. In just a few short hours, we'll be official, Arthur." 

Arthur grins at him across the tiny room. Eames' words send a current of electricity through his body. It was not even remotely the context in which he'd been hoping to hear them, but somehow he's still thrilled by them.

The bizarre bond of trust he and Eames have built over this book, which will have to continue to grow as they work together over the coming months, which they will have to maintain for the rest of their foreseeable lives, it _is_ almost like a relationship. They are now legally bound to each other, or will be when they sign the completed paperwork. 

Arthur is doing this for personal and professional reasons, but he's not stupid enough to deny than some part of him is happy to have found an outlet for his attraction to Eames that is mostly aligned with the strictures of his career, not diametrically opposed. He never thought he'd see Eames again after that last night in his apartment and he's grateful that Eames created a way for them to stay in each other's lives. 

Arthur doesn't know if anything sexual or romantic will ever happen between them again. It's hard to imagine the former without the latter at this point and that would raise a whole tangle of confusing questions. He certainly won't allow it while they're working on the book and who knows what will come after that. Perhaps they'll nag and bicker each other to the point where attraction is kicked right out of the picture and replaced by friendship--just hopefully not dislike. Or maybe one of them will meet someone else during the course of the work. 

Arthur can't imagine falling for anyone right now, not when he'll be, at the very least, conversing with Eames nearly every day, and probably seeing him frequently as well. But who knows? Matters of the heart are utterly unpredictable, as far as Arthur can tell. Look at how he'd arrived here in this office. Could he ever have predicted this just six months ago? 

Arthur and Eames manage to accomplish a minimal amount of work as they sit in Saito's little lounge and wait to sign the paperwork that will hopefully change their futures. Eames is too keyed up to focus properly. Arthur is too lost in speculation to make him.

When Saito's most-trusted assistant bustles in with the newly printed, finalized contracts, Arthur's heart clenches in his chest. 

"No turning back now," Eames whispers to him with a wink.

Arthur's hand shakes when he signs. 

But as soon as he's done, he looks right at Eames--clear-eyed and determined and bursting with excitement.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur and Eames get their happy ending, at last.

"Come on layabout, time to face the day."

Arthur groans and mashes his face into the pillow. It's Sunday, dammit, and he's hungover. Eames knows how useless he is the morning after drinking too much. 

He hears the muted clink of something being set down on the nightstand next to him and opens one bleary eye to see steam rising from his favorite yellow mug. 

"Coffee?" 

"Tea," Eames says, as he slides in behind Arthur on the other side of the bed.

Arthur heaves himself up onto one elbow and takes a meager sip, before sprawling back down. 

"Poor thing," Eames simpers condescendingly, and runs his fingers through Arthur's hair, before sliding his hand down behind his head to massage Arthur's neck. 

"I don't understand it. I didn't drink _that_ much, yet I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Meanwhile you can go out and get absolutely shitfaced and the next morning you're bouncing around like a Boy Scout at the Jamboree." 

"We're you a Boy Scout darling? How have you never mentioned this before." 

"No. I went to theater camp." 

Eames' responding guffaw makes Arthur's head hurt. 

"Surely you're joking?"

Arthur smirks through his pain. 

"I did it to meet boys."

"Ahhhh, I might have guessed." 

"Please don't tell me you're jealous of my clumsy teenage conquests." 

Eames has proved to have a bit of a possessive streak when it comes to Arthur's past lovers, or at least to be a bit discomfited by the frequency with which Arthur sees many of them in the course of his work. Strangely he's not concerned at all by any mention of Arthur's youthful romance with Robert. 

In fact, Eames and Robert had even met each other about a month earlier at a mutual college friend's wedding--an event Arthur almost certainly would have avoided if he were single. Even a year into his relationship with Eames, and just about three since they'd met, Arthur had practically given himself an aneurysm with worry about the encounter. Let him just say that his previous encounter with Robert--also at a wedding--is one of his most pathetic memories. 

Of course, Robert and Eames had been perfectly cordial, even friendly with each other. Eames is even planing to invite Robert, who has just recently moved back to Washington, and his handsome, incredibly posh Korean boyfriend to the next opening at the gallery where he now works as a public relations officer. Granted, this is in large part due to Robert's father's massive sums of wealth. Arthur doesn't think that the four of them will ever become friends, and he honestly wouldn't want them to be. But it was nice to have proof that all of his regret and longing and fear about the end of that relationship was well in the past. 

And Eames hadn't been the least bit jealous, either. Not like he'd been the first few times Arthur had traveled for work, when Eames had acted snappish and aloof for days in advance. Even a few weeks ago, before Arthur flew to a conference in Seattle, he'd caught Eames looking at him with big, worried eyes when he'd thought Arthur wasn't paying attention. Apparently, for Eames, casual sex partners are much more threatening than actual boyfriends. It makes a certain kind of sense.

Unsurprisingly, Arthur feels the opposite way. Not that he knows anything at all about any of Eames' casual bed partners, but the time he'd met Dennis, Arthur had wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face. 

It had happened completely by accident. He and Eames were walking to the Subway and he'd seen Eames go momentarily all-over tense when someone on the other side of the street called his name in greeting. Granted this had been back when they were working on the book, before they'd allowed themselves to acknowledge any lingering feelings for each other, so Arthur may have just wanted to lash out at this person who had had what he so desperately wanted and given it up without a second thought.

"Not hardly. I promise. Just admiring that your ruthless practicality extended all the way back to childhood." 

Arthur leans up to take another sip of tea, a larger one this time. Then he looks fondly over at Eames, feeling loopy and romantic in his exhaustion.

"Well just be glad that didn't extend to you, baby, because otherwise I certainly wouldn't be here now." 

He rolls over to mash his face against Eames' shoulder instead of the pillow, hopefully demonstrating that his words have nothing but affection behind them. 

"Even then, darling. You kept me waiting for over a year." 

But he's joking and they both know it. Eames had been so steadfast in his insistence that the book project didn't have any ulterior motive that even months after they were finished, he'd studiously ignored every single one of Arthur's come-ons. Arthur never would have believed he'd become the seducer in their situation, but that's how it had played out. 

Eames strokes a fingertip over Arthur's ear. 

"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you for going against your own nature for me." 

"I couldn't help myself," Arthur says, smiling against Eames' skin. "And anyway, you _did_ draw me in with the book. Thank God. I was all set to give you up forever until then. I think the book was what seduced me away from the good and proper life I'd imagined myself leading." 

Eames wiggles around, grasping for something on the covers. 

"Speaking of, darling, I came in to show you, we are the subject of speculation in the paper again. They've got a new theory. Wrong, praise God. Do you want to see? They think you're someone quite famous, actually."

Arthur panics a bit every time someone undertakes a new search to uncover the authors of their book. It's turned out to be a bit of a sport amongst a certain set of critics and educators. But Saito's been good to his word and has shielded them completely from scrutiny. 

He'd been right about the book's popularity, too. Arthur had never quite believed it, not until that first excerpt was published in _Telegraph_ and became the watercooler subject around his department for weeks afterward. The most mind-boggling thing by far though was when his mom had sent him a copy after reading the review in her local paper, saying it "sounded right up his alley." (And Ari had sent him one, too, hilariously enough.) If they only knew ... It hurt not to be able to tell his parents, but it was worth it to protect Eames. 

Arthur has a deeply secret, never-shared dream that maybe someday, when he and Eames have a little more relationship time under their belts, they'll get married. Now that DOMA is mostly dead, he could use his citizenship to protect Eames from any serious repercussions--like, say, deportation--if they were to come clean. It's an insane idea. He doesn't even know if Eames _wants_ to come clean, let alone how he might feel about the whole marriage thing. But Arthur finds himself drifting to this fantasy time and time again during slow office hours or on long plane rides. 

For all that he and Eames had jumped almost immediately to the "I love you" phase pretty much immediately after Arthur had finally convinced Eames to get physical with him again, they'd more-or-less stalled there. They don't officially live together--although thank God Eames had moved out of the Red Hook apartment in the meantime, due to financial downsizing in the wake of his career change. They never talk about the future. Arthur hasn't even met Eames' family, although Eames had met his over Christmas, when things were still "new" between them. 

Arthur knows, no Arthur strongly suspects, it's because Eames still thinks he's going to taint Arthur with his past if they become any more officially entangled than they already are. But what Eames fails to understand is that he's it for Arthur. Dunzo. Finis. 

Just like everyone else, Eames assumes that Arthur's so-called "tart phase"--no matter what he might say about heartbreak and career ambition in the post-Robert period of his life--was actually a symptom of a fear of settling down. But it wasn't ever. Not for a single moment. He just needed to wait until he could be as devoted, as wholly committed, to his partner as possible. That's Arthur's way. 

Surprisingly, although it shouldn't have been, Robert had seen it right away. He'd pulled Arthur aside at the wedding to tell him how proud he was, how happy for him. 

"I realize this might sound patronizing or bitter coming from me, but I swear it's not. I'm just so glad you found someone worth making an effort for finally." 

Arthur knew he should have congratulated Robert on his relationship as well, asked about how he and Sung met and what their status was as a couple. But he honestly couldn't bring himself to care all that much. He was glad Robert was happy. That was enough. Someday he may be able to think of Robert as a human being again, rather than a symbol for all the reasons he'd denied himself for years and years. After all, everything had worked out better than he could possibly have imagined. But Arthur just hadn't been ready yet at the wedding. 

"So tell me. Who do they think I am?"

Eames purses his plush lips in a half-smirk. 

"I don't know. I think perhaps you should actually have to guess. I'll give you a hint, though. They think you're a dean." 

"What do I get if I win?"

"How's 30 more minutes of lying in sound?"

"Hmmmmm ... I was hoping for something a little more ... _rewarding_ , if you catch my drift."

Arthur rolls onto his back, wriggling his hips around a bit to make his point.

"Oh you think you deserve all that, do you? After you passed out on me last night you useless drunkard? Last time I'm letting you go out with Dominic unsupervised." 

"What if I promise to make it up to you once I'm a little more upright and a little less knocked out on my ass?"

Eames raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

"Make it up to me how?"

"Remember July Fourth? After the picnic?"

"Remember? I considered changing my citizenship after that particular celebration." 

"Yeah ... well. It's on the table." 

"In that case let me give you another hint. Your alleged alter ego works at a prestigious medical school on the West Coast. That's absolutely all I can tell you. Oh and you're allegedly a woman."

Arthur laughs with delight, knowing the answer immediately. Eames must really want a replay of their post-fireworks, fireworks. Arthur should be more attentive to that kind of thing going forward.


End file.
